


Stiles and the Hunter

by Guede



Series: Movement in Alpha Major [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Also Erica Is His Flirting Coach, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Amorality, And Lydia Is His Project Coordinator, Angst and Humor, BAMF Stiles, Biting, Bondage, Cock Warming, Comeplay, Devious Chris Argent, Dirty Talk, Diva Peter Is Late To The Story, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Nipple Play, POV Chris Argent, Pack Cuddles, Pack Dynamics, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build, Werewolf Allison Argent, Werewolf Chris, Werewolf Courting, Werewolf Senses, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5721127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Argent, hunter-turned-werewolf, decides he’s going to court his alpha, and he’s going to do it right.  </p><p>Given that said alpha is Stiles Stilinski, this pretty much guarantees it’s a pack project.</p><p>This starts as a prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5561773/chapters/12827488">Peter and the Wolf</a>, but eventually runs concurrently with that story and then beyond.  So if you want to know who dies, that's already revealed in said story.</p><p>1/31/15: Posted one post-fic snippet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chris realizes that he’s in love with his alpha about halfway through burying the second of the three-man team his goddamned father’s sent after him and Allison, and gets a mouthful of grave dirt for his pains.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, turning around. He grabs Chris’ jaw and wipes at Chris’ face, roughly brushing off the dirt. His fingers scratch over Chris’ chin and pull at Chris’ lower lip, and then pat apologetically back over everything. “Sorry, really, but I thought we had a groove going. You know, I go on one, you go on three, and we’re all synchronized with the shoveling?”

“Yeah. Right, yeah, my fault,” Chris mutters. He stands there, holding his shovel, and watches Stiles turn back around and jam up a spade of dirt.

His alpha is still in college. Still growing, though at least he’s not the skinny, weedy teenager he was when he and Chris first crossed paths. When he’s shucked the oversized shirts and beaten-up surplus jackets, like now, he’s got some real muscle on his arms and all through his back, even if it’s still lean enough to make Chris look devoted to weightlifting. But he’s got the dewy cheek of somebody who whips out a razor once a week, at best, and his head’s bobbing in time to some ridiculous pop song by a girl younger than Chris’ own daughter, and when he stops again, it’s so he can check his phone and volley back at Erica in some app game they’ve had going on for the past week and a half.

“Boys, I understand that hard labor is an important component of male-on-male bonding, but we have a deadline for this ritual,” Lydia barks at them, in the sweetest, most venomous tone Chris has heard in over two decades of hunting. “So can you please get the trash in the hole before we run out of moon?”

“Yeah, yeah, Lyds, we’re almost there,” Stiles says, flapping his hand at her without even looking. He finishes up with his phone, puts that away, and then checks the hole’s depth with his spade handle. “What do you think, another couple inches?”

“Uh, yeah,” Chris says, blinking. He gives himself a shake, actually looks into the question his alpha’s just asked, and then nods. “Yeah, I’d guess another five or six shovels.”

Stiles heaves a theatrical sigh of relief, fake-slumping against his spade before cheerfully going back to work. “Thank God. And here I thought I was gonna miss the season premiere of _How to Get Away with Murder_.”

“We set the DVR anyway!” Scott calls over from the other grave.

“Can we just dig and get this over with?” Jackson snipes from the third. “I think I have mushrooms growing on my toenails.”

“We’re werewolves, Jackson, that doesn’t happen,” Isaac mutters, from where he’s keeping Lydia and the bodies company.

“Werewolves doesn’t mean immunity to the consequences of bad hygiene, Isaac, and I’d remember that the next time you try and toss your filthy socks in the washer with my underwear,” Lydia sniffs. “Mushrooms are the _least_ of what I’ll do to you.”

Sighing, Stiles tosses out another batch of dirt. “Bonding my ass,” he says to Chris. “Seriously, let’s get those assholes in the ground and go home. Dad’s already going to kill us for not calling it in, last thing I need is him yelling about having to bail us out of jail again.”

Yeah, so Chris’ alpha. Is still kind of a kid, with kind of a kid pack, because the violently deranged part of Chris’ family managed to kill his mother, most of his extended family, and a lot of his friends’ parents. But he’s a kid who fought them off and saved the rest of his loved ones, and for that matter, who’s kept fighting them off, up through and after taking Chris and Allison in without much of a good reason. Two of tonight’s three corpses have his bullets in them.

And he’s never even hesitated, Chris thinks, looking at Stiles. He and Scott argued some when Chris first showed up on Stiles’ doorstep, but once Stiles made up his mind, he never looked back. Chris knows they’ve brought more trouble than help to the pack, knows there are probably bodies he doesn’t even know about that can be chalked up to his and Allison’s presence, but a hunter draws a bead on him or his daughter, Stiles draws a bead on them. End of story.

But Chris has been carrying that one for a while, and that’s not really what’s bringing on the sudden epiphany. What it is, is that Chris is watching his alpha, dirt smeared all over him, panting despite werewolf strength, yet another night fucked up with death and violence, and Stiles is still cracking jokes with his betas and wondering aloud whether he should go to law school next, seeing as how great TV lawyers are at avoiding homicide charges. And Stiles is beautiful like that, beautiful and Chris thinking that has nothing to do with how much Chris owes him. In fact, Chris sort of resents having to owe him right then, just because it’s getting in the way of plain loving how he looks.

“Shit,” Chris says under his breath, and jams his shovel into the ground.

Stiles shoots an inquiring burr his way, and Chris loves how attentive he is, more attuned to Chris than his own father ever was, and _shit_. 

“Tree root,” Chris says. He kicks at it, then bends down and just rips it up till he’s got enough to bend out of the way. Because yeah, he’s in love with Stiles, and no, he’s not that stupid. “Okay, I think we’re deep enough now.”

“Great,” Stiles says, tossing out the spade. 

He dusts at his ass, which frankly just gets more dirt on it, and then hops out. Then turns around to hold his hand out to Chris and he’s got the moon behind him, slanting silvery light all over his skin, picking out a sheen that Chris just wants to _lick_ , Jesus, and that’s when Chris remembers he already really wanted to sleep with the man.

Shit.

* * *

“Dad?” Allison says, popping her head into the room. “Dad, are you okay? You’ve been really quiet all night.”

Chris pushes up from where he’s stretched out on his bed, taking a pack-free moment to catch up on work, but when he sees she’s coming in with her determined face, he just parts the privacy wards and pulls his legs out of the way to make room. “I’m fine. Are you? If you’re a little shaky—”

“I don’t think I’m any worse than usual,” Allison says wryly, sitting down on the bed. She looks at him, then unfolds her arms from around her chest and puts her hands on his knees. “But you’ve been really quiet ever since the last bunch from Gerard. You know it’s really, really not your fault. They all _know_ he’s a werewolf now, and if they’re still taking his money, it’s on them, not us.”

“Yeah, I know,” Chris sighs. He glances at his laptop, then saves where he is and moves that aside. Holds out his arms—and lets out a silent sigh of relief when she comes and hugs him, he’s not going to lie. They’re a lot closer as werewolves than they were as hunters, but they’re still not where they should be, where Allison deserves for them to be. “I’m just—”

“You say you’re sorry again, I’m going to get Scott and tell him you need an active listener,” Allison mumbles into his chest.

Chris is, actually, proud of her for turning out so strong and ruthless. Not that that stops him from growling at her. “I just got home from the preserve, Allison. Haven’t showered yet, I have no problem getting dirty again.”

“Hah,” Allison says. She squeezes him again, then pushes back. “So really, what’s the matter? And don’t lie, Dad. You can say you don’t want to talk about it, but you promised me, no more lying.”

“Yeah,” Chris says. He looks at her, seeing the nerves under her scolding face, and honestly, the guilt at that alone probably would’ve been enough. She’s spent too many nights already worrying about who’s out there after them that he’s not telling her about.

And…well, it’s going to be pretty damn obvious soon anyway. He might as well rip off the bandage.

“I was—it’s been a while since your mother, and—I don’t want you to think I don’t miss her anymore—” Chris starts.

Allison frowns, tilts her head, and then suddenly breaks into a relieved grin. “Dad, oh, my God, if you’re ready to get out there again, it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m more than okay with it, really. I want you to be happy. And I know that—well, you don’t exactly have a lot of people your age to talk to…”

She trails off and Chris is about to pull her back into a hug, but Allison straightens up without him. Still looks too guilty for his taste—Melissa McCall’s missed by all of them, but Allison was with her when they got cornered, and still blames herself for not protecting her—but it doesn’t look like Allison’s going to that well tonight.

“So, did you have somebody in mind?” she says. When Chris hesitates, she leans forward, looking maybe a little too eager. “Because if not, Erica knows—no, no, it’s not what you think, I’m just saying, she does know where _all_ the werewolf hangouts are, not just where we go clubbing.”

“Thanks, that’s thoughtful of you,” Chris says. He takes a deep breath, looking at his daughter. “But…well, yeah, I was kind of—Allison, it’s Stiles.”

Allison hears him. Her heartbeat speeds up briefly—he absently makes a note to go over masking that with her again—and then, oddly, slows. Her expression doesn’t change much, maybe goes more interested, but her scent suddenly spikes with amusement. Then worry.

“Stiles,” she echoes. Then she frowns at him. “Oh, no, Dad, calm down, I’m not—I mean, I knew you, um, liked him—”

“Not a lot of secrets in a pack,” Chris mutters. Though honestly, he thought he’d done a pretty stand-up job of covering up that one.

“—you just smelled like it, a little bit, sometimes,” Allison says, immediately changing her tack. Then she dips her head, laughing and pushing at her hair. “I’d be kind of a hypocrite if I did mind, anyway, with me and Scott. But no, really, Dad. I’m okay with it. And honestly, I’m…not too surprised.”

Chris raises his brows. “You’re not.”

Allison raises her brows right back. “Well…no. When you look at everything, it makes sense. But Dad—you’re not, when you say it’s him, you mean you’re serious, right? You’re not meaning like—”

“No, I don’t mean like his usual,” Chris says dryly.

“Oh, good, this is going to make handling Scott so much easier,” Allison says under her breath. She pushes at her hair again, thinking something over, and then catches how he’s looking at her. “What? Dad, come on. If you’re going to have a shot, we have to think this through. You’re always telling me that, you can’t get mad at me for applying your lessons.”

“Lessons?” Chris says.

“ _Dad_ ,” Allison says, in the tone of long-suffering children everywhere. “This is Stiles. There’s no way we aren’t going into this without a plan.”

Chris stares at her. But Allison _has_ been listening to him, because she just lifts her chin and stares right back at him. She doesn’t have a lot of her mother in her face, but she does in her eyes, when she looks like that. And God knows Chris had never been much for telling Victoria off either.

“Yeah, I know,” Chris says, sighing. “And I’ve learned my lesson about keeping you out where you’re curious, so…honestly, I think tackling Lydia should come first.”

Allison considers this. “True. But then we need a presentation. And bribes. You know Lydia, she’s not going to—”

Chris pulls his laptop back over, turns it around and then flips up the top to show her the spreadsheet he’d been working on. Because he knows when he’s beaten, and if he’s beaten, he might as well make her happy. “Bribes are more your line, I think. I don’t know what she wears,” he says. “Just that it’s pricy.”

“It’s a good thing I got that archery scholarship, we’re gonna need that extra money,” Allison mutters, peering at the screen. “And before you start, Dad, you’ve taken care of me even when I was literally almost getting us killed. So let’s spend on you for once, okay? If he’s really what you want.”

“I—” Chris starts, and then she looks at him, and he turns his protest into a sigh. “Yeah, well…yeah, he is.”

Allison smiles at him, and honestly, that alone goes a long way towards banishing the guilt. “Good. Now that that’s out of the way…did you get a budget for this worked out yet? I’ve got some ideas for Lydia, but I’m pretty sure we’re going to need to hit her up more than once—”

“Next tab,” Chris says. And smiles at her, when she looks up again. “I _do_ know a thing or two about project logistics. And this pack.”

“Awesome, Dad,” Allison says, nose already glued back to the laptop screen. “We’re gonna make this work, I promise. You deserve it.”

* * *

“I don’t know what you think you did to deserve my time over the _revenue-generating_ client you just hustled out,” Lydia starts, and then Allison plants the shopping bag in front of her.

Lydia pauses, clocking the logo on the bag. Her eyes flick over to them, then return to the bag as she hooks a handle with one finger and pulls it over. She tips the bag, glances inside, and then picks it up and puts it on the floor by her purse. Then she points at the two empty seats in front of her desk.

“Ten minutes,” she says.

Chris flips up his laptop. Twenty minutes later, Lydia’s rearranging her afternoon schedule with one hand, while the other’s jabbing at the appendix slides to illustrate her questions about his projections regarding non-supernatural causes for law enforcement intervention. 

“Because yes, Stiles might have a tendency to date people with loose morals, but you do have a father who’s hellbent on killing us all,” she says.

Allison snarls. “ _Lydia_. That’s not our—”

“No, we might as well get into that,” Chris says. He closes the laptop and puts it on the floor, and then looks her into the eye. “I’m not going to say it’ll help against Gerard, because Allison and I are already doing as much as we can. We did it before this came up, and we’ll keep doing it however this turns out. Because it’s the right thing to do, because he needs to be stopped, and yeah, because I owe you that.”

Lydia likes to put on a harpy act, and to be honest, Chris sometimes wonders whether there really is some of that crossed in with the banshee. But he’s been around long enough to know that with a very, very lucky handful of people, it’s not an act so much as a promise. After all, harpies were traditionally agents of vengeance, sent by the gods to torture those who’d offended them.

“I’m glad you thought about that,” she says after a second. She’s cool, from her eyes to her posture to the way she picks up her pen and taps it so the steel nib stabs into a pad of paper, ink slowly blotting out of it to make a dark, wet spot around it. “It’s not like we’d expect people Stiles fucks to have any special abilities anyway. If that was how it worked, Gerard would’ve been dead a long time ago, and I wouldn’t have three different criminal defense lawyers on retainer. But then why should we get out of your way? I might not like the revolving door on his bed, but it doesn’t make things that much worse. But if he starts up with you, and then your father hears about it…”

“I can’t promise that that won’t happen either,” Chris says. “I don’t underestimate my father, ever. I know it could make it a lot worse for Stiles.”

“But that should be up to him to say,” Allison says bravely. Though she reaches for Chris’ hand when Lydia’s eyes flick over to her, and Chris wouldn’t blame her for it even if he wasn’t her father.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Please. Free will’s all well and good, but this isn’t one of Scott’s little ethical dilemma hypos. I can’t stop you from pouring your heart out to Stiles, but I damn well can put watches on you and build up a case for why you’re getting _more_ of us killed.”

“I wish you would stop putting that on us,” Allison snaps. “It’s not like he’d stop going after you if we weren’t here.”

“But it makes it personal. You’re just a stubborn pack to him otherwise,” Chris says, before Lydia can jump in. He gives Allison’s hand a squeeze, then lets go of it and leans forward. Puts his hands on Lydia’s desk, looks her in the eye, and lets her see what he’s promising. “Look, whether or not it’s worth the extra trouble—I plan to do my damnedest that it is, but that judgment is really up to him to make. All I can say is, I’m going to make him happier than those one-night-stands you keep tossing out. He doesn’t have to hide around me. And he’s already seen the worst I can be, so he doesn’t have to worry about rooting that out either. _You_ don’t have to worry about it.”

She looks right back at him, perfectly still, almost like a marble statue except for the slow blink of her eyes, which is downright predatory. The one in the grass, marking out the prey, measuring up their relative weaknesses and making the call about which to go after.

Then Lydia takes a deep breath. She pushes back in her chair, one hand going up to finger her lip as she frowns thoughtfully at Chris.

“Interesting,” she finally says. She tilts her head, then abruptly snaps her fingers; Allison starts and then hastily sheathes her claws. “You’re in love with him.”

Chris opens his mouth, pauses, and then sighs. “Yeah.”

“All right, then,” Lydia says. She sits back up, folding her hands over each other on the desk. “Show me your plans. Oh, and Chris?”

He stops halfway towards getting the laptop back up. “Yeah?”

“Allison and I will prep Scott for you, but you’re on your own with Stiles’ father,” Lydia says. And then she smiles very sweetly at him. “I do hope you had him down.”

“He was third, just because I figured I’d see Scott first, but I guess I can move up our weekly briefing,” Chris says, grimacing. “Anything else?”

“Hurt him and I will end you,” Lydia says crisply, as she pulls over her own laptop. She glances at it and types a little, then reaches back without looking and starts texting on her phone with that hand. “And I really don’t care whether or not it’s your fault, or if your father got you possessed by the spirit of a hunter from the Spanish Inquisition, or whatever. I’ll do it even if I have to go over Scott’s dead body to do it. Got that?”

“Yep,” Chris says. He glances at Allison but she just lifts her brow at him, then makes a little well-Lydia shrug. “Okay. So, here’s what I was thinking so far…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This [comment thread with ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5561773/comments/48979039)[baeberiibungh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/baeberiibungh/pseuds/baeberiibungh) contributed hugely to the general inspiration for this story.


	2. Chapter 2

John Stilinski and Chris have a decent working relationship, considering that one of the hunters Chris trained killed his wife, and a lot more have nearly killed him and his son. When they were all debating whether to take in Chris and Allison, John was one of the first to come out for doing it, and he’s been pretty good about Stiles biting Chris, too. If he’s got something coming down from one of his law enforcement contacts and he can’t get hold of Stiles or Lydia, he prefers to call Chris ahead of Scott, and he generally trusts Chris to handle it without a lot of check-ups.

That doesn’t mean they’re friendly. The rest of the pack bounces between the Stilinski place and the off-campus house half of them are renting together whenever they feel like it, and John doesn’t bat an eye at it except to keep a running list on the fridge about who owes him toilet-paper and grocery money. But Chris and Allison do not show up without calling ahead first, and if they do, they’d better be bleeding heavily from somewhere. And whenever Chris and John do meet, John’s got his gun on—that started before Chris turned.

Chris doesn’t take it personally. He’d probably be a lot worse if he was on the other side of it. Hell, when he first found out that Allison and Scott were dating, his initial reaction was to ask Victoria if it’d be worth trying to reconcile with her family just to have somewhere to send his daughter. The only reason that never panned out was because his father upped his insanity right around then, and made the lovesick teenage werewolf hanging around the only person willing to listen to their pleas.

“So what’s up?” John says, once they’ve gone through the usual agenda of weird deaths, inconvenient arrests, monster sightings, and pack politics. “Scott getting them in trouble again?”

“Not that I know of,” Chris says. “But I haven’t been by the house in a couple days. I had to stay an extra day in San Diego, checking into where Gerard’s recruiting now. He’s throwing a lot of money around, and people don’t really want to admit they’re working for him anyway.”

John’s face tightens. He drums his hands around his mug of coffee, then hitches himself up on his seat and rolls back his shoulders. “We need to get that handled before Stiles graduates,” he says, looking hard at Chris. “Be nice if I could give him a Christmas gift of not having to look over his damn shoulder all the time.”

“It shouldn’t be that much longer,” Chris says. “Word’s out on him being an alpha on top of being a werewolf, I know he’s on the lists of some major hunter families.”

“Because what, it didn’t matter when he was human and killing innocent people? Just matters now that he can turn them, too?” John snaps. He pushes back from the table like he’s going to get to his feet, then blows out his breath and abruptly drops back. “Never mind, I stopped expecting hunters to be reasonable back when…anyway, why’d you move this up? What’s on the table?”

Chris checks how much coffee he’s got left, then drains it and pushes his mug away. “John, I’d like your permission to court Stiles.”

The other man stares at him for a few seconds. Tired, blinking, a little puzzled. Some people might think they need to repeat themselves, but Chris doesn’t make that mistake.

“Court my son,” John says.

“Yeah,” Chris says, wincing. Then he winces again, because he doesn’t—well, this is going to hurt one way or the other, but he doesn’t want to give John the wrong idea about what’s hurting him. They’re not going to start out well as it is. “I’m—I love him, and I’d…I’d like to try…”

John gets up. Gestures for Chris to stay where he is. Not angrily, just casually, without much of an expression on his face, and the wards aren’t letting Chris smell anything. He walks across the kitchen and disappears into the hall, but he doesn’t go too far after that. He already had his gun on, so he’s not getting another one, and Chris can’t make out any noises besides his footsteps and a door opening and closing, which he knows John is letting him hear; John’s not the whiz Stiles is at improvising with runes and coming up with completely new spells, but he’s a pretty good hand with existing wards.

When John comes back, Chris has both hands on the table, but he’s angling himself so he can see the man as soon as he walks into the room. John pauses, noting it, and smiles sourly as he goes over to Chris.

“You already sleeping with him?” John asks.

“No,” Chris says. “He doesn’t even kn—”

John punches him. Chris slews back in the chair, grabbing at the table to keep from falling off it, and then slowly straightens up.

“You could’ve dodged that,” John observes.

“Yeah.” Chris feels at his jaw. Bone broke but that’s already healed. Swelling and pain are taking longer than normal to leave. “Are those mountain ash knuckledusters?”

“Secret Santa gift from Boyd last year,” John says, holding up his hand and examining them. “Huh. Cracked already. You must have a jaw like concrete.”

Well, all Chris can do about that is shrug, and look up at John. Which, oddly enough, is when John finally cracks and starts glaring down.

“Your family killed my wife and they’re still trying to kill my son,” John says. “ _You_ tried to kill his best friend, and your daughter shot up half his pack. And yeah, yeah, that happened before you got your heads on straight, but it still happened. And on top of all that, you’re a guilt-stricken son of a bitch who would let somebody beat you to death before admitting you might do a little more good if you pulled your head out of the ground once in a while.”

Chris was expecting most of that, but the last part, he hadn’t. He starts up, remembers where he is and who he’s with, and makes himself stay in the chair. But if his eyes are glowing a little, well, he’s a _werewolf_ now.

“I haven’t had my head in the sand for a couple years now,” he snaps. “I might not be doing the greatest job of it, all right, but I _have_ been trying. I told you all when he bit me that I wouldn’t half-ass being his beta, and I know I haven’t. You might think I’m a shitty beta, but I’m _trying_ to be one.”

“Shitty?” John says. He’s dropped back a pace, but not out of fear. If anything, he looks kind of amused. “Stop glowing at me, Chris. I’m still thinking it over, but at least you’re not going to lay any more blame on him than he’s got already.”

“It’s not like I’m a light switch,” Chris mutters. But he concentrates on that relief he feels whenever he looks up and sees all his loved ones safe and sound, and he feels a little of that pre-shift tension drain out of him. “Look. I know—”

“I think you know an awful lot less than you should, for a guy your age,” John says, sitting back down. “But okay, you want to court my kid. Jesus, what took you so long?”

Chris stares at him.

John snorts, slouching down, and for a second he looks very much like his son, with that exasperated tilt to his head. “No, he doesn’t know, and I don’t think the rest of the pack knows. But he’s my kid. I look for that kind of thing. You know what I mean.”

“I…yeah.” Chris pauses, then pulls himself back up to the table. He gives his jaw a rub—it’s still kind of aching, like a week-old bruise—and then puts his hands down. “I mean real courting. We’re both werewolves now, and like I said, I don’t have any reservations about it. I made my choice and I’ll live up to it.”

“Just don’t bring him any moose, okay?” John says. “He’s not big on the flavor, and those hides take forever to tan, even with magic.”

Chris stares at him again.

“Look, Chris, you’ve made enough kills that I’m convinced you’re on our side,” John says, much more soberly. “Do you still remind me my wife’s dead whenever I see you? Yeah, I doubt that’s ever going to go away. But you’re not asking after me, you’re asking after Stiles. And he’s had enough crap in his life. If he wants to date _you_ , okay. I can deal with it.”

“He might not,” Chris can’t help saying.

John rolls his eyes. “And here’s my biggest reservation, actually. I’m willing to put up with a lot for my son to be happy. Would I like him to date somebody who lowers his chances of getting killed? Sure, but who the hell is that? So I’ll settle for somebody who already knows about all this stuff, who won’t pitch a fit over it, and who knows when to bite, when to pull a gun instead, and when to just call the cops. But what I’m not going to settle for is some guy who’s so messed up in his own head that he messes up Stiles.”

“Well, my family history in that area’s no secret to you,” Chris says after a long moment. He pauses to consider his next few words. He’s still not sure whether this is the best-case or worst-case scenario he’s working with here. But the more he gets into this, the more he…really cares about making it the best-case one.

He’d already made up his mind to try, but he’ll be the first to admit that he isn’t exactly a natural optimist. Chris puts his all into a lot of things that he knows aren’t going to turn out, but he does it anyway, because that’s just how he’s made. Because he does think that there’s some virtue in sticking to a good cause, for a good reason, and even if he fails, maybe he’ll push it along far enough for somebody else to take it the rest of the way. So he prepares himself for that, and expects that, and he’s not that bad off when it turns out like he thought.

But this, he thinks. This, he really damn well wants to turn out all right, all the way through. This is something—he wants this, in a way he hasn’t for a very long time.

“You’re not your family,” John says simply.

“No. And I’m not who I was when I first came to your pack either,” Chris says. “I’m better. I’ve got all that in my past, yeah, and I’m not ignoring it. I’m never going to, John, I can’t forget it any more than you can. But the thing is—my alpha. He dragged me around till I got my feet under me, and then he—he gave me the room to learn how to go forward. And it’d just—it’d be a whole lot of disrespect to him if I backslid. So I won’t.”

John listens to him in silence, without moving anything but his eyelids. The man looks tired. He always does these days, even after cutting back on his consulting work. The past few years haven’t been easy on them, but that’s what makes it more striking, that John managed to keep up while refusing to take the bite. And now, when his son’s almost through college, a respected alpha in his own right, this is when John starts to show the wear.

Chris wonders for a moment if he’d look like this, if he hadn’t taken the bite, and had just watched Allison go on ahead of him, and then he has to fight down a shiver. He’s just promised to not be that kind of man, to not dwell so much and to just do what he can, after all.

“It’s a lot easier around him, anyway,” he ends up adding. “He just…he shakes you out of it, makes you remember there’s a lot more going on. And I still don’t get it, and yeah, I’m old enough, I should, but he can ask you for something, and he doesn’t make it hard at all to give it to him. He makes it feel like just another part of your life. And whatever he’s asking for, it’s worth it to give it to him. So that’s why.”

“Okay,” John says. He lets the word sit between them, strangely light, and then he gets back to his feet. Slides the knuckledusters off, snorts at them, and then slips them into his pocket. “Well, all right, go and court him. I’ll keep my nose out of it. Just remember he’s my son as well as your alpha, Chris.”

“Yeah, I know,” Chris says. He gets up as well. Hands John his empty mug for washing up, and then steps towards the door. “Thank you.”

John already has his back to Chris. “Yeah, save that for when _he_ sees some sense. He’s Stiles, Chris. I love my son, all right, but you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Chris…does not reply to that, since John doesn’t seem to be expecting one, and Chris thinks he might as well get out while he’s got an aching jaw and a vow of noninterference.

He steps outside, then stiffens as he senses another werewolf in the driveway. If they got that far, they have to be pack. And the others drop by all the time, although usually they know to stay away when John and him are talking business. Even if he hadn’t specifically told Lydia he’d also be bringing up the courting issue.

“Yes, Lydia sent me, so stop freaking out,” Jackson mutters under his breath. He waits till Chris rounds the house and comes down the drive, then hooks his hand at Chris’ car. “We figured if it went bad, you could use a driver. But I see you’re still in one piece, so you can give us both a ride home.”

“Sure, why not,” Chris sighs.

They get into the car, and Chris pulls out into the road. Jackson spends a couple minutes checking his face, alternating between the mirror on the back of the shade and his phone’s camera for that, and then keeps messing around on his phone. At least some of that has to be checking in with Lydia, but he’s smirking too much for it to be all her.

“So you’re going for Stiles,” Jackson says, nose still buried in his phone.

Lydia hadn’t exactly promised to keep her mouth shut, but Chris had thought he could trust her to be smart. “We heading back to some coming-out party for it?”

Jackson snorts. Then rolls his head over and looks at Chris and adds a sneer, too. Chris tries not to get stuck on everybody else in the pack being a generation younger than him; sometimes, and more often than he’d been expecting, he enjoys it. But honestly, he’s never liked Jackson. 

He’ll be damned if he can see why Lydia’s so loyal to him, either. Chris isn’t that fond of Lydia but he absolutely respects her, and he knows why she’s more of an asset to the pack than either of them. So why she’s decided to hitch up to a spoiled, self-centered, callous prick of a kid who seems to take her for granted whenever he’s not actively begging for her attention via flirting with any female within reach—yeah, well, he guesses even Lydia has bad judgment sometimes.

“I know you don’t like me, Argent,” Jackson says. Still sneering, with the tips of his fangs showing. For all that Erica and Boyd act like they were literally raised by wolves, Jackson’s the one whose vanity gets them revealed as werewolves the most. “But here’s the thing. You first met Stiles when he was what, fifteen?”

“Just out of the hospital when he was born, actually,” Chris says. “He was the heir apparent, Jackson, you don’t think we weren’t around for that?”

Jackson whistles lowly. “Well, this just gets creepier and creepier.”

“Does Lydia have a point?” Chris says, exasperated. “Because yeah, I’m good. And you got a working pair of legs.”

“It’s ten miles and these shoes are handmade Italian leather!” Jackson sputters. “Do you know what it’d cost to get them resoled?”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Not a convincing argument, Jackson.”

“Well, fine, try this—I know you think I’m just Lydia’s dick and all, but I’ve known Stiles just as long as her. And I know him better when it comes to things like dating. She might think she knows everything, but he wasn’t going to talk to her when he was crushing on her, are you kidding me?” Jackson scoffs. He smooths back his hair, then holds up his phone to examine himself. “He could barely talk to her, period. So you want to know how to get into his pants, Argent, you’re going to need me.”

They’re at a light, and the light’s just turned green, and Chris _just_ told John that he’s putting his all into his role as beta. So he waits till they’re through the intersection, and then he looks over. “One, I don’t think he’d talk to you either. Two, are you seriously offering to help?”

One of the things that annoys Chris the most about Jackson is how the man rarely backs up his words. He’s been told Jackson was a lot worse, especially before he started dating Lydia, but for a perfectionist the guy is incredibly quick to abandon what he considers a losing cause.

“I’m just saying, I have information you might want to know,” Jackson mutters, scrunching a little behind his phone. He flicks a furtive look at Chris, jumps when he sees Chris is still staring at him and not the road, and then glances ahead of them. “Hey, can we not cra—”

It’s a four-way, and nobody else is there. Chris steers them into the turn, still looking at Jackson.

“Jesus, just because we howl at the moon doesn’t mean we’ve all got to be adrenaline junkies,” Jackson says, still shooting panicky looks at the road. “And yeah, okay, I _am_ offering. Because trust me, McCall’s not the way to go on this, and—and can you just drive like a normal person?”

Sighing, Chris turns around and puts both hands back on the wheel, in approved student-driver fashion. He slows gently at the oncoming yellow light, then flaps his hand at the honking car behind them. “Why are you offering? Because this isn’t one of your little blackmail routines, Jackson. You threaten me or Allison and I’ve got no problem kicking your ass across the town. And alphas want to call me on the carpet about it, I’ll take it, no problem.”

“Well, you’re a lot more gung-ho about this than I was expecting.” Jackson huddles up in the corner, eyeing him. Then makes a shaky effort to pull himself up and straighten his shoulders and look confident. “He’s my alpha too, you know.”

“Yep,” Chris says.

“And it’s not like I’m doing this just for Lydia, either. I know you all think that, but it’s not like I had to let him bite me to keep seeing her,” Jackson adds, a little resentfully. He runs his hand through his hair again, messing it up, and he twitches like he’s going to pull up his phone, but ultimately that goes into a pocket as he looks sharply at Chris. “He gave me something better than what I had. And I remember that. I know you think I’m just some asshole in this for the superstrength but I’m not. I’m his beta. And I’m offering because I want to return the favor, and you’re a dick but you’re a _huge_ improvement over the trash he’s been dragging in lately.”

“That’s very flattering, Jackson, thank you,” Chris says dryly. He taps his fingers against the wheel, watching the cars ahead of them, and then eases back on the accelerator as another yellow light comes up. “All right, then. What did you have in mind?”

Jackson’s silent. When Chris looks over, it appears to be out of genuine surprise.

“Lydia let you get this far, I assume it’s for a good reason.” Then Chris shrugs. “Yeah, so, you’re a better man than I usually think this _one_ time. You’re still you. And yep, I’m an asshole.”

“Also, with your sense of humor, you two so deserve each other,” Jackson says after a second. He shakes his head, then slumps back in the seat and stares out the windshield. “Whatever. So Lydia showed me your plan, and it’s good but you’re forgetting one thing—Stiles is a _complete_ dumbass when he’s not being an alpha.”

Chris pulls up to the curb, and then looks at him. “Jackson. He’s an alpha all the time.”

“Don’t be nitpicky, you know what I mean,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes. “Also, why are we here?”

“Because you and Lydia live here?” Chris sighs.

“Hahaha, yeah, being literal, that’s going to get him. And then we’ll all watch you get into one of those sarcasm wars and at the end of the day he’ll still be getting hit on by drunken coeds who need tutoring with a side of cheating on the steady boyfriend,” Jackson says. “No. We’re going to your place, and you’re packing a bag, and then you’re moving up to college. I already kicked Isaac over to Scott’s place, he’s sleeping there half the time anyway.”

Chris looks at him again, then pulls out his phone.

“Lydia _agrees_ with me, that’s why I’m here,” Jackson says. “All that stuff you’ve got in there, it’s great. But so long as you’re commuting up from your place to do it, he’s just going to think you’re being super-beta or something like that. That’s your biggest problem, Argent. You’re his beta, just like Lydia was his unattainable perfect woman, and so he’s got total tunnel vision when it comes to either of you coloring outside of the lines. You have to get there and get in his face about it.”

It’s a couple seconds before Chris puts the phone away. He still wants to check in and see if there’s a demon on the loose and possessing people, or some kind of personality-altering monster, but…that’s just habit talking. He knows Jackson’s right.

“Damn it,” he says, and pulls away from the curb. “And don’t you dare be smug about it, Whittemore. If I’m living with a bunch of college kids from now on, that’s the last thing I need.”

Jackson, oddly enough, looks anything but smug. “Trust me, this is going to be awkward for everybody,” he mutters. “So let’s just get it over with already. And let’s do this without the granny driving either, okay? I want to get back to my _actual_ life sometime before the end of the world.”

“Sure,” Chris says. And hits the accelerator. “Jesus, Jackson, do you always scream like that? I thought you drove a Porsche.”

* * *

When Chris shows up, duffel bag in hand, gun case slung over his back, Stiles is holding a bowl of cheese dip and has an advanced biochemistry textbook and a translation of the Voynich manuscript stuffed under his arm. He blinks a couple times, then steps back and lets Chris in. “Hey…this is a surprise. Not a bad one! Just…well, is it a bad one? I’m pretty sure I didn’t let my phone battery die again…”

“Yeah, sorry about that, I would’ve sent you a text but my battery actually is dead,” Chris says. “Sorry about the guns, it’s just that I don’t want to leave them in the car.”

The pack’s college rental is a nice enough house on its own, but it’s sitting in the middle of a less than savory neighborhood. Not so bad that Chris would worry about them, even if he hadn’t worked on the house’s security himself, but enough so that Stiles nods in sympathy.

“No prob. So what’s up?” he says. As Chris walks into the hall, his eyes shoot to the duffel bag and then he swings in behind Chris. “You on your way to something?”

“No,” Chris mutters. He walks into the kitchen, rubbing the side of his face. Swings his bag and case up onto the kitchen table, then rubs his cheek and neck some more. “I…well, I need to stay somewhere. My house is infested.”

Jackson, thankfully, went home after making sure Chris was on his way to the college, but they’ve got plenty of company without him. Isaac might be staying with Scott, but he’s still sitting on the other end of the table as they walk in. He apparently was just told that Chris needed his bedroom, and he looks both curious and a little annoyed.

“Infested?” he says. “Pixies again?”

Chris makes a face. “I wish. I was fixing a drippy faucet and accidentally put a hole in the wall, and turns out I’ve got black mold.”

“And that’s the bad mold?” Isaac says.

Erica, who’s flopped over the armchair in the adjacent living room with her feet kicking, raises her hand. “That’s the bad, not psychedelic, not even useful for alchemy mold. That’s the kind of mold you can’t root out with runes, hedgewitches, or any kind of magic, period. Hey, Chris, you showered before you came over, right? Because also, it gives me hives.”

“I’m clean,” Chris says dryly, and then he turns to Isaac. “Jackson told me—”

“Yeah, it’s cool, I already moved my stuff to Scott’s place,” Isaac says, flapping a hand. “He was a dick about it, but that’s not your fault and anyway, Scott is a lot closer to my morning lab this semester.”

Stiles ping-pongs his gaze back and forth between them, swiveling to lean up against the table with his back to it. He’s almost touching Chris that way, and a second later he’s closed the space, pushing them together from knee to shoulder, and stretching his head over to whuff against Chris’ throat into the bargain. “And nobody thought to tell me?”

Chris might be good enough to just come off as embarrassed and pissed when he’s telling half a pack of lies—he’s got a hole in his wall, and leaky plumbing, but the only mold in his house is on the food in the fridge he’ll have to toss when he gets home—but he can’t help purring and rubbing back against Stiles’ face. He’s just lucky that Stiles has always been pretty inappropriately free with scenting displays.

Or maybe not. When he pulls back, Stiles has his head cocked and his eyes narrowed. Then he hooks his hand over Chris’ shoulder, using it to pull up so that he can perch on the edge of the table. “Hey, hey,” he says, patting Chris’ arm. “I’m not gonna say no _now_ , no need to suck up. I’m just—”

“I didn’t know,” Isaac says, putting his hands up. “Jackson just busted into study group and told me and Scott Chris needed a room, stat. I thought he was going to tell you next. Speaking of, Allison knows this isn’t a pack emergency, right? Because she was there and she looked a little…”

“No, she knows what it is.” Because Chris’ daughter is growing up to be a very levelheaded young woman, and she’d texted him immediately to ask if this was an update to the plan, adding that she could skip her economics class if it wasn’t and he needed more firepower. “Sorry about Jackson. I called Lydia to see if their spare bedroom was free first, but Danny’s visiting.”

“You don’t want to stay with Lyds and Jacky-boy anyway, crashing with them sucks,” Erica says, bouncing over. “They make you put down coasters for everything, and I mean _everything_. So welcome to the wolf den, Daddy!”

Chris doesn’t really twitch at that anymore, just fights down his urge to bite something. “Don’t call me that.”

“Hey, rules, no molesting for the first forty-eight hours,” Stiles says. He still has his hand on Chris’ shoulder and it’s warm and solid and it’s very difficult to resist the urge to bend over and lick it.

Except there’s cheese dip on the back of it. And Chris is trying to be smart about this, but there’s being smart and there’s being so cautious he turns down a gift-wrapped opportunity.

So Chris leans over and takes a lick. And then, while they’re all staring at him, he rolls his tongue around his mouth, thinks about it, and leans over even farther so he can stick his finger in the bowl Stiles is holding on his lap. 

“Nice,” he says, licking it off. “Boyd?”

“Is going to be so pleased you’re into his dippity dip,” Erica says, starting to grin. “And I guess it doesn’t count if it’s the alpha?”

“Oh, my God, pack of nymphos,” Stiles says. He spins the bowl onto the table behind him, then pushes off onto his feet. “Well, okay, so Erica can show you—”

“Ooo, sorry, alpha, gotta go, Isaac and I are missing our kegger!” Erica says. In two zips she’s grabbed Isaac and zoomed out the door with him.

So she knows, Chris thinks, and makes a note to himself to have some words with Lydia about independently advancing mutually-negotiated parts of the plan. Then he turns to Stiles and shrugs. “I have no idea what they’re up to,” he says, honestly.

“Yeah, well, I gave up on that back in middle school.” Stiles hefts his books, then shrugs and puts them on the table by the dip. Then he grabs Chris’ duffel back and steps back so Chris can get the gun case. “Okay, I guess _I’ll_ show you around.”

“I’ve been here before,” Chris says. Not that he’s not following.

“I know, but now you’re _living_ here,” Stiles says. He turns and grins at Chris over his shoulder, bouncing on his toes a little in glee, and he looks so damn ridiculous that Chris almost ruins it right then and there.

Fortunately, Chris also stumbles over something and the begging whine that’s growing in his throat gets derailed. Instead he curses and grabs at his case, and then frowns down at the floor. “Is that a—is that the dagger I gave Allison for Christmas?”

“Whoops, yeah, somebody must’ve forgotten that one after our last game of William Tell,” Stiles says. He stoops and grabs the knife, stuffs it into the back of his waistband, and then laughs. “Kidding. We got a squirrel in the attic the other day, had to move everything out of it before we caught it. Must’ve dropped that moving it all back. Don’t look at me like that, you know we clean.”

“Yeah, well, I can be told that but I might just look into it tomorrow, while I’m here,” Chris mutters under his breath.

He and Stiles go up to the second floor. The place used to be a single-family home so there’s a master, which naturally went to Stiles, and then three other bedrooms. Chris knows Allison gets one to herself, but he’s not over so often that he’s sure about how the others divvy things up. They usually meet at his house, if they’re going to see him, since he’s trying to give Allison a little room.

“So Erica and Boyd share that one,” Stiles says, guessing his thoughts. “Well, when she’s home, anyway. Get me if you need to go in there, Boyd’s been playing around with electricity again. Isaac’s over here.”

It’s a pretty bare room. Not even anything up on the walls. “I really need to sit Jackson down,” Chris mutters, setting his case down on the desk. He checks a drawer and there’s not even any spare pens or staples rolling around in it.

“Oh, nah, that’s not Jackson. Isaac’s been kind of migrating over to Scott’s anyway,” Stiles says. “Honestly, not sure that he’s going to move back. Which might be good for Scott, to be honest. He’s been, well, kind of lonely…”

Chris makes a face. In retrospect, Scott’s really not all that bad a choice for Allison, but those two have a lot of things to work out before they can make a healthy go of it. And Chris gives Scott a lot of credit for figuring that out himself, but if it’s going to come down to who’s sitting alone at night and moping, he’s always going to side with his daughter. “Yeah. Well.”

“So! Anyway! I don’t think Isaac really stripped any wards before he left—” Stiles mutters a string of Latin, then nods as runes and sigils light up all over the room “—but he didn’t really modify anything, aside from the lights.”

“Lights?” Chris says.

Stiles snaps his fingers. A soft, almost lulling glow surrounds the bed. Chris sniffs and doesn’t detect any ozone, so he risks a touch and…feels a slight warmth, but nothing else.

“It’s _not_ a nightlight, anybody who calls it that is on trash duty for the whole week,” Stiles says, snapping his fingers again. The light goes out and Stiles steps by Chris to put the duffel on the bed. “So, this mold thing? I don’t think it came with mind-altering properties, even with weres, last I checked.”

“It doesn’t,” Chris says, looking curiously at him. “Why are you asking?”

“Well, because you’re being kind of clingy.” Stiles looks at Chris, and then at the bare two inches that are separating them, and then back at Chris. “I mean, I know, alpha and all, but I thought you’d gotten over that.”

Chris grimaces, then rubs his face as he feels it flush. The thing is, he’s not much of an actor, and controlling your heartbeat and breathing only goes so far. So…he just goes with it. Yeah, he’s caught out and it’s embarrassing. Stiles can tell. He’s still not stepping back.

“You smell nice,” he says, shrugging. He leans over and sniffs, and then straightens up to see a flicker of something go through Stiles’ eyes. “I got a lot of crap on me before I got that pipe shut off so I could get out and call the fumigators. I did take a shower before I came over, but I still feel like I can smell it on me.”

“You smell okay to me.” Stiles sniffs, glances at Chris, and then holds Chris’ gaze as he reaches up and grabs the side of Chris’ shirt-collar.

Pulls Chris over by it. Before the fabric even goes taut, Chris is jerking up his chin and flashing his throat, and when Stiles doesn’t even get that far, just presses his nose into the collar, Chris whines a little. Curls up his hands into fists and presses them to his hips, feeling a little claw sink into the palms, so he doesn’t push his luck too much with trying to touch.

“Nope, fine,” Stiles says. He lets Chris’ collar slip through his fingers, staring into Chris’ eyes. They’re so close that even if Chris were still human, he’d be able to smell the cheese on Stiles’ breath. “ _Really_ clingy.”

“Well, also, got dumped out of my house on short notice. I think it’s making me a little edgy,” Chris says, and it’s all true.

Stiles looks at him for another second, then nods. Nods, and reaches back up to curl his hand over the side of Chris’ neck. He pulls, and when Chris gratefully sinks his head against Stiles’ shoulder, it’s against a warm, low rumble that rolls down Chris’ back like a blanket. Chris noses into Stiles’ throat, making little, rough noises, and that’s not playing either. That’s just him, shaking off his nerves while his alpha holds him up.

“That really sucks,” Stiles says, in between purrs. He rubs his hand over the back of Chris’ neck, then squeezes lightly at the top, his thumb just pushing in behind Chris’ jaw. “Did they say how long it’ll be?”

Chris has to move his head in order to answer. He’s annoyed, and then he realizes he could just push closer to Stiles and get his head over the top of Stiles’ shoulder instead of moving away. And does that, so now he can feel Stiles’ belt-buckle digging into his belly. “Week, at least. I don’t actually—I don’t know when. I had to get out right away so they could seal off the place, and the fumigator’s going to call me back with when he’s available.” 

“Did you bring enough of your stuff?” Stiles says. He turns his head so he’s looking at the bed. “Honestly, Chris, I know you like to travel light, but it’s not like we’re camping out in the woods.”

“I’ll go back later if I need more. Pretty sure we can rustle up a haz-mat suit somewhere,” Chris says. He sounds lower, throatier. He’s not even thinking about it, but now that he’s hearing himself, he thinks it sounds pretty good. “Don’t worry about the—the specialty stuff. I made sure that’s all locked up.”

Stiles laughs, but it’s soft and affectionate. “Yeah, of course you did. You always check that kind of thing first. Well, okay, it sucks but we got you covered for now. So…”

Chris burrs inquiringly. Pressed up against Stiles’ throat like this, he can hear even the half-born sounds, like the responding huff Stiles almost makes and then crushes out. Stiles shifts a little under Chris’ head. Smells kind of confused, but also, just under that, just a trace of lust, and—

—Stiles’ phone chimes. He starts, then swears before the ringtone’s finished. Then he pushes at Chris’ head, making apologetic noises. “Hey, um, so I’ve got—that’s—well, I think he’s on the—”

Front porch. Chris can hear a heartbeat down there. He does his _damnedest_ to keep his growl to a minimum, and then makes sure he looks just embarrassed when he straightens up. “Yeah, sorry, I know I’m crashing your night. Don’t let me keep you.”

“No, I—oh, so, the basement, don’t open the door with the wolfsbane flower drawn on it, that’s not where we keep it, that’s all in the garage,” Stiles says. He takes out his phone and texts on it and gives Chris’ neck a last rub and messes with his hair all at the same time, and since he’s Stiles, manages to pull it off with just a little yelp when he almost drops his phone. “And anything in the kitchen is fair game except for the stuff labeled with Allison’s name. Laundry change is in the sugar jar, and sugar is in the bear, and um, sorry, I gotta—anyway, check in with you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah,” Chris sighs, watching him stumble towards the door. “Yeah, sure.”

Stiles flashes him a thankful smile, then turns and hurries downstairs. Chris doesn’t do anything like sneak after him for a look, but he does leave the door open and the privacy wards down so he can listen in on the conversation. The man’s human, and not in the know, since Stiles excuses the dagger he’s got to put away as being from his SCA-crazy housemate. Sounds young, and they have at least one class in common.

Chris listens to all that while he’s unpacking. Weapons, then clothes and toiletries, and then, just as they’re finally getting out the door, he sets up his laptop and hooks it into the house’s security system. Six feet, dark hair, eye color can’t be detected, lean build with a slight stoop in the shoulders. Tattoos up his arms, which, when Chris puts them into their database, are mostly for EDM bands. And then, when they’re going down the walk, he pulls out a little packet of something and offers it to Stiles, who laughs and takes it and acts like he’s popping its contents into his mouth but actually dumps it down his sleeve.

Objectively, not much to worry about. Subjectively, Chris still snarls at his screen. He slaps the laptop before he gets too caught up in it, then gets up and goes to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is going to be a lot heavier than _Peter and the Wolf_ , but I don't want to get too much into other people's trauma because Chris is already a trauma magnet. That said, unlike the show, alpha!Stiles and alpha!Scott actually believe in getting their pack members psych support, so the nightlight spell is the least of it.


	3. Chapter 3

“Morning, Dad,” Allison says, coming into the kitchen. “So Scott and I are having lunch later and Erica wants to borrow my car so do you mind driving me over?”

She’s clever about it, saying all of that while keeping her feet and hands moving, filling up her bookbag and throwing on her coat and then grabbing the bagged trail mix he holds out for her, with a quick swoop in to peck his cheek. All that movement keeps her too busy to give away any nerves in her scent or heartbeat. Although, as she steps back from him, he does catch a little smirk on her face.

“Sure, around when?” Chris says, giving her a warning look.

“Eleven-thirty?” she says. When he nods, she makes that smirk into a real smile, and then hurries out of the house.

“And hel _lo_ , Daddy, thank you for the wake-up call,” Erica purrs next, slinking in. She’s done her hair and her face, but below that she’s still dressed in surprisingly conservative pajamas. Not that that helps much when she pops up the privacy wards and then walks right up to push her breasts into his arm. “Strawberries? My favorite.”

Chris steps away from her, and also raises tongs that are dripping hot grease between them. “I have no idea what Lydia told you, but—”

“Oh, God, Lyds, are you kidding me? She’s still mad I got alpha when I had a chance, and she didn’t,” Erica snorts. “No no no, your baby girl let me in. And let me say, good thing she did, otherwise I would’ve been really pissed off at being left out. And you know I hate being left out.”

Chris looks at her, with her fangs sticking out from a perfect pair of red lips, and then sighs. “Well, if you’re going to threaten me, hurry up, because Boyd just got out of the shower.”

“And Stiles is brushing his teeth, because last night was a total wash and he ended up calling us to go save him,” Erica says. She shifts back, folding her arms across her chest. Watching him, and when he doesn’t bother looking down, she grins. “Aww, Chris, seriously. I know everybody else is getting on your case and I’m not the kind of girl who goes with the crowd. No, I’m all for this. So…no shirt’s a great start, but where the hell did you get those sweats, your ass doesn’t even show. Also, you missed a little—”

She darts forward before Chris can get the tongs around, ripping her claws across the back of his hand. They might heal but it still hurts, damn it.

Chris flings the tongs at her, which she easily dodges as the privacy wards come down, and then swears and sticks his hand to his mouth. He’s just managed to smear blood all over his chin when Stiles comes into the kitchen, blinking sleepily, hair a muss of soft spikes, and then promptly snaps to attention as he gets a whiff. And, going by the huge eyes, more than a look.

Boyd’s right behind him. Looking just as gobsmacked, although when Erica smacks his arm, he blinks hard and then resets his face to its usual neutral—so he knows too. He looks at Stiles, then clears his throat. “Uh, can you move? I smell sausages.”

“Yeah, so do—those are sausages,” Stiles says, moving aside. He looks at the stove, and then at the island. “Sausages and bacon and pancakes. And a fruit salad. Did I know we had a salad bowl?”

“I brought one,” Chris says, and then smirks a little when Erica shoots him a look. “It’s my bleed-out bowl, but I cleaned it out, I promise.”

“Not like we’re gonna mind a little dripping on the blueberries. Right, alpha?” Erica says. She hops up onto the stool, plate in hand, and starts serving herself. “That said, Chris, you don’t have to donate a pint yourself. We’re not _that_ desperate for rent.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Chris says, glaring at her. Though yeah, okay, Stiles _is_ staring at the blood on Chris’ hand. “Goddamn grease splatters.”

Boyd’s already lined up next to Erica, shoveling food onto his plate, but Stiles takes another second to wander into the kitchen. Then he pulls his foot back; Chris curses again and then bends over to retrieve the tongs.

“Well, I hear one of the best ways to avoid those is clothing,” Stiles drawls. “Although you’re definitely getting Erica’s vote on best housemate.”

Chris shrugs, washing off the tongs, and then turns back to the stove, rescuing a couple sausages that are just shy of overcooked. He gives his hand a few more licks, then rubs at the blood on his jaw. “Started with a shirt, but it got grease on it. Easier to heal than to get out the stains.”

“Now that’s what I like in a man,” Erica grins.

Stiles laughs, but he’s distracted. He comes up to the island and pokes around the plates, then takes the cover off the one with the fritters. He sniffs it, then smiles broadly. “Bacon and paprika,” he says. “Just like Mom’s—oh, hell, no, you talk him into frying you your own plate. These are mine, alpha’s right.”

Pouting, Erica subsides on her stool. And then gives Chris eight fingers when Stiles is looking away from them, rummaging in the silverware.

Chris frowns at her. Erica points to the fridge, then starts to mouth something, except Boyd bumps her arm. Then he holds up—

“Sour cream applesauce?” Stiles says, grabbing it. “Also mine.”

“You’re a selfish jerk, alpha,” Erica says. She adds two fingers.

“So what’s the special occasion?” Stiles says, sitting down at the island. “Somebody’s birthday? Anniversary? Because seriously, Chris, you really don’t have to make it up to anybody just because you needed a place to crash.”

Chris shrugs, turning off the stove. He sets the tongs in the sink, and then swishes some water over his jaw, too, because what’s left of the blood is getting unpleasantly sticky. “Why do you think this is special?” he says, frowning at Stiles. “This is how I do breakfast.”

Stiles blinks. Erica leans way, way back in her stool, so her hands are behind him, and then flashes a fifteen at Chris.

“Where’s the hidden camera?” Stiles says, without moving his head.

Boyd pulls Erica back so she can stuff her hands under herself and make faces at Stiles. “You’ll never know,” she says. And then directly scarfs a fritter from his plate. “Seriously. I nominate we get Chris to move in permanently and cook everything.”

“Someday, you’re going to learn how to make your own meals,” Chris says, scowling at her. “You got lucky today. I just like a hot breakfast.”

Erica’s still chewing the fritter, even though Stiles has lunged over and put her in a headlock, as if he’ll really want anything he manages to shake out of her mouth. The two of them wrestle around the island a little bit, insulting each other, while Boyd calmly stockpiles food on his plate. 

When they finally break apart, Stiles is missing another fritter. Stiles looks at the empty spots, groans in understanding, and then huffs back onto his stool as Chris takes up a spot on the opposite side of the island. “Okay, so next house meeting, we are _discussing_ the food ownership situation,” he mutters, halfway through a fritter. “Speaking of. Morning business.”

“I told you music students are no good,” Erica promptly says, with a wink at Chris. “Sure, they’re great listeners but it’s all ears, no mouth. Can’t—”

Stiles looks at the ceiling and pulls a martyr face. “ _Not_ my strike-outs, thank you. I mean—”

“Done,” Boyd says, picking up his clean plate. “Bye.”

Stiles looks down and over. He shrugs, then turns to Erica, who also raises an empty plate. Then tosses it to Boyd, who sets both in the sink before producing their bags from somewhere. “Sorry, alpha, gotta go, got that TA to butter up for my midterms,” Erica says, hopping off her stool. “Just text me time, place, and how bad to beat them.”

Then she and Boyd hurry off, leaving Stiles to stare indignantly in their wake. “Did they just ditch my meeting?” he says. “But mine are fun! I don’t open with break-out sessions and I always provide food!…well, okay, that’s kind of covered already, but…”

“Is there something?” Chris asks. He’s actually curious at this point; they _do_ have regular pack meetings, but either John or he hosts those, depending on people’s distribution across town that day. He’s never heard of this meeting before, though now that he thinks about it, Allison had muttered something about not being awake enough for Stiles’ jokes.

“Uh, not like, threat stuff,” Stiles says, reading Chris’ mind. He dumps out half the jar of sour cream applesauce onto his plate, then starts swirling a fritter in it. “It’s not like we’ve got a super-secret club where we talk about everybody who doesn’t live here, either. It’s just stuff like, hey, so the guy in advanced biology we all thought was a ghoul? Well, I talked to him and actually he’s a vegetarian, but _also_ , he’s a medium whose best friend is a century-old cowboy. I promise we save the life-threatening stuff for the real pack meetings.”

Chris realizes he’s been crouching over his food, and eases back so he can eat it without also climbing halfway over the island. He might be deliberately relaxing himself for this but he’s not reverting back to new-beta habits, damn it. “That’s reassuring. I thought for a second there that Scott might be picking up saving the world as an after-class hobby again.”

“Haha, no.” Stiles props his chin up on his hand as he munches his fritters. His eyes flick off to the side and his mouth twitches towards a grimace before he shakes himself, and just spreads more sauce over his food. “I think we’ve finally learned our lesson on that one. Although honestly, I gotta say, all this free time we’ve got now is sort of throwing me. I keep sneaking out to see if it’s really that boring, and then it is, and then I end up hanging out with all the druggies and slackers by accident. I’m kind of getting worried, you know, I did promise Dad I’d stop pulling the social outcast stuff now that I’m in college and geeks are the top of the pyramid.”

“Well, you want something to do—” Chris starts.

Maybe too eager with that. He pauses to rein himself in and Stiles grins. Leans forward, eyes lighting up, an off-white smear of sauce on his chin that keeps floating into Chris’ vision. “—I can go track down rogue hunters with you?”

Chris isn’t so far gone that he’s falling for that. He closes his mouth and stares at Stiles, firmly keeping his eyes above the man’s nose. And then, when that doesn’t work, he rolls his eyes and then jabs his fork at his alpha. “I _literally_ saw your father last night.”

“But Chris, I’m _bored_ ,” Stiles whines. He leans over some more, and then drags himself back so that he can flop across the island next to his plate. “I haven’t had somebody try and kill me in almost a month!”

“Yeah, and we’d like to keep it that way. You also promised him you wouldn’t start shit during classes,” Chris mutters. Then he sighs and puts his fork down, and looks seriously at Stiles. “Besides, honestly, not a lot going on. I’m still trying to track down that last batch, but if it’s taking me this long, chances that they’ve got any backup that will come after us are pretty low.”

Stiles makes more whiny noises into the island. How he manages to do that, and still make Chris feel like the proper thing to do is get down on the floor and nuzzle him till he stops, is beyond Chris. But he does, and Chris is just glad to have food to distract him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Stiles finally mutters. “Well, okay, fine, but you know I’m just going along with Dad because there really _isn’t_ anything going on.”

“You could just try and relax and enjoy it,” Chris says. “I don’t mean bumming around, Stiles. I mean…isn’t there something you wanted to do that you couldn’t do because we were too busy, or that you had to drop, or anything like that? Or you could always go see your dad.”

Stiles pulls his head up, frowning. “I _do_ see him. What, did he look—weird, or something?”

Chris blinks. “Not weird.” And realizes his mistake immediately, and grimaces. He stalls for a second, cutting up a sausage, and then hunches his shoulders under Stiles’ stare. “Well, look, you talk to him more than I do. He just looked a little tired, I guess.”

“Oh. Yeah. That.” For a moment Stiles looks tired, and not just like he maybe cut out more sleep than is good for him again, even if they’re naturally nocturnal. “Yeah, he’s…I don’t know, I keep asking him if somebody should move back with him, but he keeps saying he wants to enjoy having a little peace and quiet. I think he cut back on his caseload too. I’m actually not that sure if he goes out, you know, when one of us doesn’t drop by?”

“I’d offer to check up on him, but I’m not sure how welcome that would be,” Chris says slowly.

Stiles glances at him, then snorts and settles back to tuck into his breakfast. “Yeah, on a couple levels. I mean—thanks for offering, but maybe Dad just needs a breather. He was really working his ass off, this last round of crap, and well, if I’m fidgety, I have to get that from somewhere.”

“Well, like I was saying, I’ve always got work. _Research_ work, Stiles, not field. I like being on your dad’s good side,” Chris says, catching the mischief creeping back into Stiles’ eyes.

“There is such a thing as field research, you know,” Stiles says, but he’s grinning again. “So by ‘research,’ tell me you don’t mean updating our monster database or working through the werewolf manual. Because I got so bored I cleared out that whole backlog two days ago.”

“No, I mean like crunching through some family bank records with me,” Chris says. “I’ve been over and over them, and I still can’t figure out where Gerard got the money for the last bunch, let alone routed it. He should be dead broke by now.”

Stiles is still grinning, but it’s a little smaller, less flashy. And Chris might be reading things into it that aren’t there, but it feels more intimate. They’re not just joking colleagues; they might have all that bad blood in the past, but that just means Stiles really understands what it means that Chris is asking for help here.

“I thought you wanted to stay on my dad’s good side?” he says. “Is this why the fritters? Bribery is very low, Chris. Low and delicious.”

“I do, and no, they’re not. I just wanted to cook them for you,” Chris says, stretching an arm over. Then he stabs his fork into a fritter, right as Stiles’ brows start to rise, and instead Stiles yelps and grabs and manages to rescue half a fritter, courtesy of an impromptu claw scissors. “Also, if I remember right, you promised your dad you weren’t going to go hunting till we got that warrant against Gerard issued, not that you weren’t going to—”

“—help build the case against him? Cut off his revenue stream?” Stiles supplies. He pops his half into his mouth and chews, slotting it into one cheek like a chipmunk, and then beams at Chris. “Man, I love you sometimes. Awesome.”

Chris’ heartbeat skips, and he doesn’t even have to listen to know that. 

Then he bites back a curse and looks down at his plate, and silently thanks God that Stiles’ phone goes off right then. Werewolf hearing is sharp, sure, but it can be just as selective as human hearing, and that happens to be Scott’s ringtone, which guarantees that Stiles is going to forget whatever else is going on.

“Oh, hey, so, I’ll totally take you up on that offer,” Stiles says, half-sliding off the stool, nose glued to the phone. “Just sorry, Scott’s…ugh, honestly, out of high school and still panicking over pop quizzes. Um, I’m gonna have to take these to go.”

He lifts the plate of fritters. Chris laughs, and then deliberately sits back and curls his hands around his own plate. “All yours.”

“Oh. Oh, right! Okay, well, I’ll see you later,” Stiles says, and wanders off.

He left the sour cream applesauce. Once he’s back up in his room, Chris pulls the jar over and sniffs at it, then sticks his half-fritter into it. Pops that into his mouth, chews slowly, and thinks that that went well.

* * *

Lunch with Scott is, actually, probably the most straightforward of Chris’ meetings. He’d originally planned to talk to Scott before starting up with Stiles, as with John and Lydia, but Lydia had insisted that Chris not wait ‘because God knows when we’ll be able to pry him out of his kennel.’

Which for once isn’t just a bad pun. Scott’s so dedicated to his dog training work that when the training center’s lease was threatened, he put together a funding drive that both saved it, and ended up making him new part-time manager. Between that and classes, even werewolf speed wasn’t getting him around town fast enough, so he moved out of the pack’s rental and into his own apartment. 

He and Allison also broke up around the same time, but these days Chris usually doesn’t hold that against him. Stiles had been the one to force Allison and Chris to see reason, but Chris will give Scott credit for being the one to relocate, since till he did, Allison had been so shaky around him that she’d been talking about dropping out of classes and just moving home.

These days the two of them have managed to be friends again, although sometimes Chris watches the looks they sneak at each other and he just wants to sit his daughter down and tell her, if she really wants him, then fight for him, whatever he thinks. Chris is…probably never going to love it, but he can learn to deal with it.

The only reason Chris doesn’t is because Allison already knows how to fight, and honestly, better than he does a lot of the time. “Hey,” she says, arm hooked through Chris’, walking him up to where her alpha is waiting. “So Lydia said she—”

“Yeah, she told me,” Scott says, giving her a reassuring smile. Then he turns to face Chris. He pulls his shoulders back, takes a deep breath, and then gives Chris the same tentative smile he’d pulled out when first having dinner at the Argent house. “So, you’re courting Stiles?”

“Hopefully,” Chris says. Because yeah, technically he’s already started, but he’s being realistic.

Scott’s smile gets a little more solid. He steps back to let them come into the café’s patio, and then pulls out Allison’s chair before sitting in his own. “Great.”

Chris blinks. “Great?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Allison hisses, elbowing his ribs. Then she smiles politely at Scott while smoothing down her skirt as she sits, which Chris recognizes as Lydia move, through and through. “He means—”

“No, I know, but if you really love him, I think you should at least get a chance to tell him. And I don’t think you’d be admitting it to Lydia if you didn’t,” Scott says mildly. He pauses as their waitress comes over and they put in their orders, then turns a more businesslike face to Chris. “So Lydia said you’d already talked to John, and I know Jackson knows, because he called me up to help him seal off your house after you dropped him off—”

“I’m really going to talk to that little shit,” Chris mutters, while Allison heaves a sigh and then pulls out her phone to text somebody, which had better be Lydia.

“—and I ended up telling Isaac because I just figured he deserved to know why he had to move. Which he’s cool with, by the way, don’t worry about that. He gets that Jackson was being, well, Jackson,” Scott goes on. “What about Erica and Boyd?”

Chris looks at Allison, who blinks innocently at him and then, when he doesn’t stop looking, scrunches down in her seat and hides behind her hair. “…sorry, I wasn’t planning to, but she walked in while I was editing the budget and grabbed my computer and I had to tell her everything before she’d give it back. I meant to tell you after this and she _said_ she’d wait for me,” she sighs. “Though honestly, I guess better to get that over with.”

“Yeah, if she doesn’t know, she’s still going to pick up we’re doing something and she’d mess with it just to mess with it,” Scott says. Then he frowns. “Budget?”

“Lydia,” Chris and Allison say.

Scott blinks, then shrugs. “Okay. Okay, well, I’m not sure what I can do to help, but just so you know, I’m here.”

“Thank you,” Chris says. He sounds a little reluctant and he’s genuinely not. He’s just surprised—not that Scott is so forgiving, but that Scott is so…is treating this as if it was just another piece of pack business. He honestly didn’t think he was being obvious.

“I didn’t know you felt that way about him,” Scott says, answering the question Chris is strangling in his throat. “But it’s been a while since he had anybody serious, and he definitely deserves it, and I think you’ll be good for him.”

Sometimes Scott is so earnest that, even if he’s on the right side of things, Chris finds himself irritated just at how incredibly optimistic the kid still is. And sometimes, Scott is irritating but he manages to touch whatever’s left of Chris’ sense of hope. “Thank you,” Chris says again, with closer to his actual feelings.

“You’re welcome,” Scott says, looking a little confused. He pauses, and then he looks a little unsure of himself. “But, uh, just to get this out there—I’m on his side if it doesn’t work out. I mean, it’s not like we’ll throw you out of the pack just for that, and I won’t let them if anybody brings that up. But he’s my best friend.”

“Scott,” Allison says. She starts off strong and scolding and then trails off, looking at him with a mix of surprise and sympathy.

“Yeah, well, sorry,” Scott says. He shrugs but doesn’t look away from Chris. “But yeah.”

“Fair enough,” Chris says. “So how are the dogs?”

As usual, Scott immediately brightens up. He starts talking about a new batch of rescues he’s gotten from the various shelters in the area, moving his arms and hands around so much that he nearly knocks off a glass from the table. Allison catches it and they lock eyes, and then they both wince and glance away. She asks him a question about training that Chris knows she already knows the answer to, but Scott jumps on that with clear relief. Chris pretends he was rereading the menu to spare them both, and they don’t talk about Stiles for the rest of the meal.


	4. Chapter 4

“If any of the words out of your mouth start with a ‘d’ and end with a ‘y,’ I’m going to make sure I leave off the anti-cockroach sigils when I do your room,” Chris says, while giving the floor a last scrub.

“I was just going to say that those jeans are working way better for you.” Erica takes up a seat on the stairs, just high enough so that her bare knees are the first thing Chris sees when he looks over. Then she bends over and smiles widely at him. “Chris.”

After a few seconds, Chris just shakes his head and goes back to cleaning. He’s got all of the floors done except for this last bloodstain, which somebody tried to just stuff under a rug. His usual cleaners aren’t working, even the fancy enzymatic stuff an alpha up in Tacoma had recommended at their last treaty summit, so he’s pretty sure it’s not human. He’s absolutely sure they didn’t tell him about it, and he knows it’s not werewolf since the wolfsbane vinegar isn’t working either.

She’s still watching him. “You have to have something else to do,” Chris mutters. “Either that, or you spill about what the hell this was before I get out the chalk.”

“We exorcised all the bad juju, Chris, stop acting like you’re the only one who’s ever woken up to a vengeance demon,” Erica says, rolling her eyes. She’s—tricky. She acts about as immature as Jackson most of the time, but she’s a born, from a line that’s been allied with the Stilinskis as far back as the turn of the century, and if you look at the edits pages on their werewolf manual app, she’s racked up the most after Stiles. “So Stiles swore off random hook-ups again, good timing for you.”

Chris pokes the stain again, then sighs and sits back on his heels. “Okay.”

“And I’m really trying to give you go signs here, but if you’re gonna revert to bad daddy all the time, I might just give up and go poke Scotty about your daughter again,” Erica says. Arm propped on her knee, hand holding up her chin, and when Chris snarls at her, she snarls back, and then lets it melt into a grin, her eyes still glowing. “Don’t you want to know why?”

“Honestly?” He wrings out the sponge over the bucket, then tosses it to the floor. “I’m not really sure I should care about a bunch of people who can’t even get to one-night-stands. That’s just making unnecessary competition.”

Erica blinks, then laughs delightedly, clapping her hands together. “Oh, all right, I do like a confident one. True, but on the other hand, he does let them try.”

“You gonna get to the point any time soon?” Chris says, checking his phone. Stiles is on dinner duty tonight, according to the fridge schedule, and so he should be on his way home with Allison.

“I guess I just wanted to check whether you were paying attention to him or not,” Erica says. When he frowns at her, she just gives him a big, broad, entirely unfriendly smile. “’cause he does like you. He’s got this thing for older guys, if he’s going on the male side. Older, sarcastic, sort of morally shady guys. And you’re not exactly straight ‘n narrow these days, are you?”

Since he’s got it out, Chris flips to the scan mode on his phone and then points it at the bloodstain. “I think that really depends on your definition of straight ‘n narrow. And I know yours is pretty bent.”

“Awww, daddy made a funny,” Erica coos. Then she gets up off the stairs and comes over to stand next to him, so her skirt hem’s just flicking his ear. When he doesn’t turn his head, she stoops so the hem is dropping over his ear instead. “But seriously, Chris. He already thinks you’re hot, and he likes you enough to ignore who _your_ daddy is. So I really, really hope you’re not just pulling this housewives bullshit the whole time, because man, you both deserve better.”

Chris looks up, startled. Then swears and averts his eyes from her—whatever she has on under the skirt, he’s not double-checking that. He shoves at her knee, then gets up while she’s giggling at him. “You’d be a lot more convincing if you didn’t smell like you were going to offer hands-on advice.”

“I’d be a pretty stupid person if I didn’t try that at least once,” she says. She bats her eyes at him, holds the vacant gaze, and then shrugs and drops back to lean against the wall, her arms crossed over, not under, her chest. “So look, I get the slow build and all, you definitely don’t want to go how I did and just drop it like a fun night and then get stuck with that label. But he also likes you because you’re kind of an asshole, is all I’m saying. Go with your strengths.”

“Does this involve taking off my shirt?” Chris says.

Erica rolls her eyes. “I’m not shallow _all_ the time, Chris. I just don’t like missing out on golden opportunities.”

“Yeah, well, I appreciate the support. I really do. I just—” Chris starts.

“Pack knows when to keep out as well as when to come in, don’t worry, we’re not gonna be in your business the whole time,” Erica says. “Besides, I know I missed the boat on that one.”

Chris pauses, watching her laugh under her breath and toss her hair. And she is genuinely relaxed about it, but he doesn’t think he’s imagining that little trace of wistfulness in her voice.

“I think that worked out fine, actually,” she says, catching on. “We’re both pretty cool today.”

“Not saying you aren’t. But…I’m a werewolf now, I’ve got no intentions of being anything else. And I’m going for him as he is, not as I’d like him to be,” Chris says, a little more quietly. “I know he’s not going to stick just with me, even if I can get him, and I’m not going to fuss over it. Not that you should get excited, Erica, because that doesn’t mean—”

“Yeah, yeah, shelve my fun threesome dreams,” Erica says, though she’s looking more appreciatively at Chris, and not just about whatever his jeans are doing. She straightens up and stops tossing her hair, then laughs again, less showily, more good-humored. “Thanks, but no thanks. I think back then was more about my parents cutting and running, on both of us. We’re a lot better as pack and friends.”

She’s sober for a second, recalling it, and then she pulls herself off the wall. Comes up as he’s sighing and hooks her fingers through his belt-loops, tugging till he gives her an inch. She looks down him, then hums under her breath.

“So these are better, but I feel like you’re still not really maxing out,” Erica says. “And if that deer blood is in the basement fridge for the reason I think it is, you really should dress to match.”

“I’m not letting you in my closet,” Chris says.

Erica pouts. Then she shrugs and lets go of him, and pulls out her phone. “Your closet’s being fumigated, so that would kind of destroy the alibi, Dadster. Whatever, you finish up with your Martha Stewart stuff and I’ll be upstairs in Stiles’ closet, okay? Come find me when you’re done.”

“We’re going to need _another_ alibi now,” Chris says.

A beat too slow—she’s already halfway up the stairs. “Okay, honestly, you’re just being mean now!” she yells back at him. “Do you think I’ve never done this before or something? Just do your Cinderella whatever, okay, and let me do my job!”

Chris starts to say that her job is not messing with his life. Then stops, because that’s kind of not true, goddamn pack bonding, and just checks what his phone says about the stain: succubus. He pauses again, then shakes his head and swipes over to their herbal app to figure out what he needs to pull out of the pantry.

* * *

“Hey, so dinner is ready, and the house is…suspiciously clean, like, I’m not sure I can smell me anymore, and am feeling a strong urge to bellyrub my way around, and did we kill somebody?” Stiles says, wandering into the basement.

Boyd texted Chris four minutes ago with a five-minute warning, so Chris is still painting the last bits of the circle. He can’t look up, this part has to be done in a single unbroken stroke or he’s got to start over, so he just shrugs as dismissively as he can. “No, it’s the deer from last full moon. And yeah, I know the cleaners kind of reek, sorry about that. Allison and I were going to re-scent things after dinner.”

Stiles doesn’t answer right away. Nerves tighten up Chris’ back, but he manages to resist looking up till he’s got that last curlicue done. Then he sets down his brush and bowl, and pushes back onto his knees.

“Um,” Stiles says, blinking hard. He shakes his head, looks around, and then shakes his head again. “So…on top of re-scenting, we’re redoing the alarm wards this week?”

“I was down here earlier and they looked kind of faded, and I didn’t have anything else to do,” Chris says.

He gets up. Grimaces for real as his back pops and his thighs ache with suppressed cramps; turning into a werewolf undid a hell of a lot of the aging process, but he’s still not a springy teenager. Though yeah, grabbing the back of his neck and arching it and rolling his shoulders while Stiles shifts from foot to foot, watching, that’s kind of unnecessary.

But fun, Chris has to admit. And so is smelling his alpha’s arousal spike when he steps out of the circle and over the candles, and Stiles clocks whose flannel shirt Chris is wearing. Chris ducks his head and then flicks at his sleeve. “I got blood on mine, and yeah, I know, I’m starting to think I didn’t bring enough. Anyway, Erica was—this was all that she’d give me when I asked.”

“I give up on her,” Stiles says. He’s still tracking Chris instead of rolling his eyes as usual, and when Chris gets close enough, he steps over to sling his arm across Chris’ shoulders, when normally he’d just lean over to rub cheeks.

He doesn’t just rub cheeks either, but pulls them front to front as he strokes the side of his face all over Chris’ temple, cheek, jaw and throat. Every time he slides past the jawline, his head tips so his breath leaves damp, hot patches on Chris’ skin, and when Chris huffs in encouragement, he rumbles back, his fingers digging a little at Chris’ shoulder.

Cleaning the den’s a pretty neglected step in werewolf courting, and most people drop it these days. Even a born like Erica doesn’t really understand the point anymore. Which is more than a little stupid, in Chris’ opinion. Because the point is, get a clean slate, both to make your own scent stronger when you lay it down, _and_ to spur those marking instincts. And it’s working way better than Chris was hoping—he knows he doesn’t smell like pack, aside from Stiles’ shirt. He’s been soaking all day in cleaners, stuff specifically designed to wipe out scents, and then he was working on the wards and that’s deer blood, strong herbs, nothing that smells remotely like werewolf. He probably doesn’t even smell like people.

And he has to admit, after all that he’s more than ready to smell something else, too, and Stiles is pressed up against him, filling his nose and it’s his _alpha_ , hell, he’d have a hard time resisting if he was trying. Which he’s not.

He lets himself lean into the other man, nosing in between Stiles’ collar—plenty loose for that, that’s one benefit of the baggy clothes—and then just stays there, breathing quietly, letting his lungs drag out Stiles’ scent. Man had something fried for lunch, and was in a chem lab at some point, he absently notes. Also strange dogs and Scott, must’ve gone across campus.

Stiles keeps rubbing his cheek over Chris. He’s going longer than normal, much longer, but when he twists his head so he seems like he’s coming off and Chris whines in protest, he not only moves it back, he also drags at Chris’ shirt—his shirt—with his hand, fists his fingers in it, pulling it away from Chris’ neck. Then walks his hand over, dipping it under the collar, pushing the fabric up so he can get nearly his whole face under it. His breath spills down Chris’ back, like long trickles of warm water along the spine.

Chris whines again and Stiles pushes his hand up to clamp over the back of Chris’ neck. Then grabs at Chris’ hip with his free hand, stilling Chris while he’s still shivering from the first hand. He snarls low in his throat, not angry, just commanding, and Chris shivers again. Tips up his chin, hooks it over the top of Stiles’ head, makes every inch of his throat available.

The hand on Chris’ hip jerks forward, pushing him into Stiles’ face instead of the other way around, and honestly, it’s just about all Chris can do to keep his knees locked. And then he feels teeth in his neck and he _has_ to grab at Stiles to stay up.

Stiles catches him, moving both hands to his waist, and then stumbles in place with Chris as Chris drags on the other man’s shoulders. They finally find a wall and collapse against it, Stiles first, and they’re both panting.

“Okay, well,” Stiles says. “That was—that was embarrassing. Sorry.”

“What?” Chris mumbles.

“Um, the whole alpha caveman thing I just pulled?” Stiles says. He moves his hand back to Chris’ neck, but grips it very loosely. Still, his thumb brushes over the bitten spot, and it’s already healed over, no blood, but just that makes Chris whimper and then purr. “Oops. Shit, um…Chris? Chris, hey, you didn’t—like, inhale something when you were magicking around, did you?”

It sucks to pull back. There’s not really any other word for it. But yeah, it’s not happening right now. There’s a damn plan for a reason. “No, no, I’m—I’m fine. Just—yeah, re-scenting. I probably should’ve thought about that before I started.”

“Yeah, well, you did just get here.” Stiles presses his hand over Chris’ nape, firm but not encouraging. It’s a simple grounding touch, and as soon as Chris raises his head, it’s gone. Though Stiles does keep his other hand on Chris’ waist, helping to steady him as they step away from the wall and over to the stairs. “Though maybe hold off on the rest of the home improvement stuff till tomorrow? Which, you know, you don’t _have_ to do.”

Chris nods absently. Puts his hand up to rub at his neck—with the back, not the palm, so any transferred scent will last longer. “It’s not a guilt thing, really. I just can’t look at any more records right now, and I needed to do something.”

Stiles clicks from slightly concerned to distracted. “Oh, right, those! So I got through all my midterms, and I’m something like two weeks ahead on homework for all my classes, so I have fresh, ready to be burned by tiny print and bad photocopying, eyes. So when do we start?”

They get to the top and Jackson’s there, arguing with Isaac and Allison about some promise they made to swap patrols with him and Lydia. Jackson doesn’t even look over, so it’s a little bit of a surprise when he suddenly flings his arms up, one swinging Chris’ way.

Chris automatically side-steps and he’s not even thinking about it, but he ends up back against Stiles’ side, with Stiles’ arm curled over his neck. Stiles makes a curt, snappish sound, not a growl but aggressive enough to get Jackson’s attention. Jackson looks wounded but promptly swivels out of their way, and then, when Stiles’ back is turned, makes owe-me gestures with his hands.

Rolling her eyes, Allison motions that she’ll deal with it, and then makes shooing waves with her hand while smiling encouragingly at Chris. He nods in thanks and then turns his head just as Stiles pulls them up to the table.

“So, since we got an awesome breakfast, I figured we better work up a decent dinner, too,” Stiles says. “The stove here’s kind of crap compared to your range, but I think the steaks came out pretty good.”

“They smell great,” Chris says. He hesitates, considering how far he can push this, and then tilts his head and gives Stiles a last cheek-rub in thanks. Then, before he can get stuck in it again, he sits down, and he does not check to see if Erica is giving him a finger rating under the table. “So what’s everybody doing tonight?”

“Well, I’m helping you, Dad,” Allison says, hopping over. She starts to reach for the salad, then pulls her hand back as her phone goes off. “Though Scott said he was coming over at nine. He said he’d help too, but I think he’s still got that paper to write.”

“Bug him to finish that already, there’s only so much I can take of editing the same paragraph for him fifty times, even for my bestest buddy in the world,” Stiles says. He sits down and grabs a couple dinner rolls. “I’ll pitch in after I clear out the manual support inbox.”

Isaac frowns around a mouthful of steak. “Weren’t you going to that concert with that guy?” Then he jerks, as if lifting his leg very quickly to dodge something coming at it, and shakes his fork as if remembering something. “Oh, wait, right, Erica said he didn’t work out.”

“I kind of get tired of faking a molly high, and anyway, I think I’m due for a couple nights of staycation,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Anyway, can’t have this place just smelling like my dirty socks, that’s just slacker alpha. We’ll do it up right. Right, Chris?”

“Right,” Chris says, and then digs into his steak. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

When he checks his phone after dinner, Chris has texts from the whole pack except for John and his daughter, and they’re all ratings on a 10.0 scale. Scott, at least, has the decency to explain that Lydia’s instituted a peer feedback system to help him out.

Chris sighs and texts him a thanks. And then shuts off his damn phone for the rest of the night.

* * *

Re-scenting is exactly what it sounds like: making everything smell like you. Doing a rough re-marking of the house with hands and bare feet and balled-up unwashed clothes doesn’t take more than a couple hours, but that’s just surface scent and that’s easily wiped over. Real scenting, where it gets down into the fibers of a place, can’t really be sped up. It just takes a lot of constant use.

In practical terms, that means people stay home a lot more for the rest of the week, and the ones that don’t live at the rental drop by more often. Chris had known that the cleaning idea would come with a lot more prying into his courting, but he had been hoping that Lydia would keep things under control.

_Do you want him to notice that we’re doing something?_ she texts him, upon being complained to. _I told everybody to act normal. This is normal._

Well, Chris can’t argue with that. So he does his best to work around it. He schedules a couple investigations so that he doesn’t have to be home when Stiles isn’t (4.0 average, two medians of 2.0 and 9.0). He suggests that he and Stiles work on sifting through the bank records, which thankfully are all electronic, from the back porch instead of the living room (7.0 average, 6.8 median, most common suggestion is to take off his shirt even though temperatures are dipping into the fifties at night and werewolves aren’t immune to hypothermia). When that doesn’t keep off everybody, he asks whether Stiles wants to break for a bit and go get ice cream from the man’s favorite diner (9.0 across the board except for Lydia, who thinks he should’ve tried chili dogs from a food truck that parks across from one of the dorms).

It’s all pretty good for getting Chris’ scent established in the place, and he thinks it goes a ways towards getting Stiles to see him as something besides just an ex-hunter, but after a few days Chris takes stock and then has to admit that he’s not sure he’s getting anywhere. He’s still smelling arousal off Stiles, but it’s not moving towards anything more substantial, behavior-wise. Stiles seems really amused to learn things like how Chris does laundry and whether Chris puts the toilet roll over or under, but other than that, he just takes Chris as another pack member crashing with them.

“Please tell me you’re going to suggest something besides stripping,” Chris says.

He and Erica and Lydia are conferring on the porch. Allison was also supposed to join them, but she texted that she’d be late, and now she’s a few minutes past her revised ETA. It’s still a little early and Chris really tries to not micro-manage her now, but he has to admit he’s getting that cold, crawling feeling on the back of his neck. They’ve had way too many bad nights start out with Allison not showing up.

“If you swear you’re not going to rat me out, I might be able to tell you that she got in a little fender bender and she’s just waiting for the cop to finish writing up the report,” Erica says, eyeing the claws he’s starting to dig into his phone. “Apparently she was driving by and she saw that intern flirting with Scott.”

“Which is going nowhere, ninety percent of that girl’s Facebook photos are of her cat, and I’ve told her this repeatedly,” Lydia sniffs. “Anyway, to the matter at hand. You’re plateauing, Chris. You had a strong start and you need to keep the momentum going before you just end up being relabeled as live-in help.”

“I don’t know if he’s going to hang out at home for much longer, either,” Erica adds, looking sober. “I think he’s getting a little antsy. He was talking about hanging out with the Wicca crowd again, seeing if they’ve got anything interesting going on.”

Just then, a text pops up from Allison confessing that she had a little car trouble, but she’s fine and she’s on her way now. Chris replies with a simple ‘okay,’ since werewolf reflexes won’t save them from text-while-driving tickets, and anyway, helping his daughter with Scott isn’t something they can really do over text. “I know, I get it, but I think just walking around without a shirt all the time might clue him in. And probably get me kidnapped for an exorcism I don’t actually need.”

Lydia makes a face. “I still think that, given the evidence at hand, that was the right…we’re getting away from the point. Which is, you don’t just strip, Chris. You put some context on it.”

“Translation: you’re gonna let me beat you at sparring,” Erica says.

“Why?” Chris says. Then he holds up his hand. “I get where you’re going, just, why am I losing? Shouldn’t I be showing off for him?”

“You’re showing off by showing you don’t mind taking an unorthodox role for the greater good,” Lydia says. “Also, she’s not beating you. You’re practicing submission holds. And it won’t just be you and Erica, the rest of the pack will be there, so that should keep the handsiness to a minimum.”

She glowers at Erica, who looks blankly back at her, twirling a curl on one finger and slightly twisting her body so her skirt rides up. Despite that, which Chris is very glad to see Lydia is taking seriously, they do have a point.

On the other hand, they’re not the only ones who have been mulling over werewolf psychology. “So what does Jackson want?” Chris sighs. Then raises his brows when Lydia starts. “For when he fakes the pack getting in on it, and gets Stiles to jump in and take over. I’ve been seeing how you’ve been rating things, Lydia.”

“Well, for all the response I’ve gotten from you, I thought those were falling into a black hole,” Lydia sniffs. “He’ll take you as a guest to the country club’s skeet shooting next week. He’s trying to have lunch with his father again.”

“You know, for all the credit intimidating his business rivals gets us with David Whittemore, I might as well just install machine guns on his car or something like that,” Chris mutters. “Fine. And fine, we’ll try it.”

* * *

“You sure about this, Dad?” Allison whispers, coming up the porch. “You don’t _have_ to play up to Erica, just because she’s gotten Lydia to go along with it.”

She’s sweaty and panting from her turn against Boyd, which she managed to flip in her favor two out of three times, Chris was proud to see. He still checks her over for any twigs or rocks that have healed into her skin. “I know, but I think they’re right. Do need to step things up a little. You know, you don’t have to stay for this. If it makes you uncomfortable…”

Allison goes from dubious to slightly offended. “ _Dad_. It’s Erica, I was living with her already, it’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before. Okay, so you’re my dad, but—yeah, _really_ not staying away. Somebody’s gotta watch your back, and honestly, I don’t trust the rest of them on this one.” She steps back, avoiding a spray of grass as Isaac skids across the yard, then pulls her ponytail around to squeeze out the sweat. And also nods at the taser that’s peeking out of her purse. “I got you covered.”

To be honest…maybe Chris’ concern is coming more out of him still having trouble seeing his daughter getting within a mile of anything sex-related, let alone seeing _him_ at it. But he does feel a little better if she’s the one monitoring Erica. So Chris smiles at her and she starts to smile back, then twitches. 

Scott’s heartbeat briefly comes out onto the porch, then goes back in and circles Stiles’ in the kitchen. 

“You all right?” Chris says.

“Me? No, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?” Allison says, blinking.

He looks at her. They haven’t discussed the car accident yet, except for her to swear she’ll cover any rise in the car insurance. Allison shoots him an annoyed look, and he’s about to just leave it for later when Scott comes out again, and this time asks if anybody needs any water.

Nobody does, so Scott goes back in. “ _Now_ he’s got an extra bottle,” she mutters, and then makes a face as Chris raises his brows. “It’s no big deal. I’m fine. Really. It’s just—there’s a convenience store on every block, if you’re really thirsty, wouldn’t you just wait? As opposed to drinking from the bottle of somebody you don’t even know? Haven’t people gotten drugged like that?”

“Stiles and me, once, Boyd, twice—” Erica says.

“I knew them, they were just cousins from family we stopped talking to,” Boyd mutters, as he picks up a groaning Isaac and tosses him over one shoulder.

“—Jackson, twice, and Scott, sorry to say, Allison, but he’s the reigning champ at six times,” Erica finishes. She stoops and picks up something that she then tosses to Isaac, who’s gone limp upon realizing Boyd’s just carrying him clear. Then she bounds across the yard till she’s standing right in front of Chris and Allison. “Well, you ready?”

Chris glances at his daughter, but she’s shaken off her rattled air and is sternly glaring down at Erica, arms folded over her chest and claws wrapped around each elbow. She looks a lot like Chris’ late mother-in-law right then, to be honest, and Chris has to push down his own rattled wince, because that woman had made battleaxes look flimsy.

“Okay, they’re almost done arguing over Deaton’s stupid note,” Jackson says, coming out onto the porch. Then he frowns. “Why are you all just standing around? Are we doing this or not?”

“I promise I won’t bad-touch you,” Erica says, holding up both hands as she steps back. “Well. Much.”

“I’m as undressed as I’m going to get,” Chris warns her as he walks down the porch steps.

“And _that_ is a very intriguing conversation to walk into,” Stiles says. He strolls out, Scott looking a little downcast at his heels. Stiles himself is slightly tense, but that drops quickly away as he surveys them. “Also disturbing. And yet, I still gotta ask.”

Rolling her eyes, Erica grabs both of Chris’ hands and then uses them to drag him out into the ring they’ve chalked onto the grass. “It’s nothing _bad_ , alpha,” she calls over her shoulder. “Chris and I are just gonna go a few.”

Normally Chris stays on the sidelines and gives pointers—John did a good job of modernizing their hand-to-hand fighting, but alphas aside, none of them could match Chris once he got the hang of his new reflexes—so Stiles looks a little surprised. And more than a little gleeful. “Seriously?” he calls back. “You’re getting in there?”

“I need some exercise,” Chris says. “Been staying in a lot lately.”

“And I think I’m starting to get these jiu-jitsu moves,” Erica says, right before she lunges at him.

He easily dodges her, and then lets her own momentum send her sprawling onto the grass. Erica’s the quickest of the betas, and sometimes can even outdo Scott, but she and Chris have been going back and forth over her screaming loud tells as long as they’ve been letting him teach them.

“At least _try_ , would you?” Chris mutters at her shocked, indignant face. Generously giving her a full second to recover before he ducks and then rushes her.

She does a lot better that time, but not enough so that he’s about to go down. He’s still going with the original plan but he’s not about to embarrass himself. And anyway, third pass, Erica stops looking so pissed about it and starts getting into the fight.

Two more passes in, Chris finally lets Erica get enough of a hold on him that she can get him down on the ground. She’s just not tall enough, compared to him, that she holds him for long, but as he scrambles free, his shirt pulls tight and then zips loose, with strips swinging around his sides to flap in front of him. And then his sweats rip up from ankle to knee, as a wild swing of hers manages to catch them.

Chris has a pretty large supply of clothes he doesn’t mind losing, but he’s starting to think he might need to stop over at one of those bulk discount stores and lay in some more. For now, his shirt’s still hanging together but the scraps are a hindrance anyway, so he just goes ahead and yanks it the rest of the way off. And then gets blindsided as Erica comes in and he thinks she’s going to drive him over, and instead she ducks her head under his arm and _licks_ his chest.

“Hey!” he hears Allison shouting.

“Come _on_ , daddy,” Erica hisses. Her eyes are more impatient than leering. She scrambles up his body and then hastily throws herself free, just as he’s maneuvering her into a headlock. Then, quick as lightning, she spins on a dime and comes at him again. “Moving a little slow, you know what I mean?”

He throws her off, then can’t help rolling his eyes as he feels her claws rake across the back of his thigh. Draws a little blood, as well as rips his pants almost up to the buttock. “Know you’re still clicking your tongue when you shift weight,” he says.”

“Yeah, well, know who’s trying to see if you dress left or right?” Erica says, jerking her chin at the porch.

Chris doesn’t look. Does slip up—genuinely—and cock an ear in that direction. He’s got just enough time to detect that pretty much everybody’s heartbeats are up, and that does mean something, considering how steady Stiles’ is through storm and supernatural fire and Chris’ goddamn father, and then Erica levels him.

She’s a little messy about capitalizing on it. He could get out, but he makes his limbs move just a fraction slow, and lets her twist him onto his belly, lock up his arms and one leg. Erica laughs in his ear, pleased with herself, and then grinds down on him. She smells _very_ pleased—Chris winces and stuffs his nose and mouth into the ground, trying not to be too annoyed, before he uses his less-pinned leg to heave them over and jar her hold loose enough to escape.

“Hey, you got him a whole second this time!” Stiles says. He’s down off the porch for a closer look.

“Getting there,” Erica says, her hand wrapped around Chris’ ankle. She hauls him back, and then, as he’s slashing out at her, dodges the claws to straddle his thigh and her yoga pants are thin enough he can tell she’s not wearing underwear.

Chris snorts fiercely, clearing out his nose, then kicks her off. She promptly whips around and wraps herself around his upper body like an octopus, then grins through a bloody nose as he headbutts her. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters as they separate.

She backs off and realigns her nose, shrugging at him. Then she looks up and past Chris. “Can I get a face check?” she says.

Boyd’s come over, too, and he circles around behind Chris to look her over. The adrenaline’s going enough that Chris stiffens and then swings himself so his back’s not to the other man, snarling and feeling his body shift. He fights that down—they always do the second half of training unshifted, for times where there are clueless bystanders—but he’s barely got that down when somebody else comes up on his new blind side.

Chris swivels again, growling, and Jackson looks slightly shaky about his flouncy little plop to the ground, with an armful of water bottles, but he’s convincing enough so that Stiles, still near the porch, looks annoyed. Then confused and slightly worried, especially when he glances at Scott and Scott is…Scott and Allison are bickering, and from the way Allison’s heartbeat is skipping all over the place, it’s real and not part of the plan.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Chris hears from behind him, just as he’s getting up to intervene.

He twists around, but Erica hits him hard enough to knock him over. Her claws sink into his back and leg, deep enough to be just past annoying and into real pain, and then she’s all over him. Worming her arms around his, jabbing a knee into the back of his thigh to knock it over, shredding at his sweats’ waistband so he thinks it might be slipping. And then, just as she’s got him belly-down and almost locked up, she deliberately snaps her teeth just shy of his throat.

Chris shifts in an instant, snarling and throwing everything he’s got that that fraction of slack he’s still got. He feels Erica relax, her holds on him slipping, but not enough, and then there are other werewolves snarling back at him, just a little too close, when he’s not clear yet, and—

“Okay, what the _hell_ ,” Stiles says, voice dropped low, shot through with warning gravel, just as Chris goes to his last resort and breaks his forearm, then uses the resulting space to twist free.

Erica lets out an aggressive growl. Not a challenge, but definitely a stand-up-and-be-counted noise. As Chris scrambles clear, he sees that she’s shifted, too, and Boyd and Jackson behind her are just pulling out of theirs.

He backs up so he can roll back onto his feet and behind him, _over_ him, his alpha rumbles a more pointed warning at Erica, eyes red, one hand swinging to just graze the tips of Chris’ hair. Chris breathes out slowly, feeling his shoulders drop. Feeling better already. He rolls his shoulders, then brings his healing arm around and runs his hand down it, checking the alignment of the bones. And yeah, showing a little fang at the others, letting a growl come up and second Stiles.

Erica stares at Stiles, blue to red glow, and then she grins and shifts back, posture loosening, still aggressive but nonchalant, not angry. “Got you,” she says to Chris. “That was good, huh?”

“I guess, aside from the whole flash mob moment where you all looked like zombies and Chris looked like dinner,” Stiles says sharply. He’s still glaring at them, although since it’s clear the fight is over, he’s settled back on his heels. “What was that about?”

“It’s fine,” Chris says, before Erica can look at him, or do anything else to clue Stiles in that this was—well, it was coordinated, even if everyone wasn’t exactly clued-up. That wasn’t exactly how Erica had described it to him, and he’s annoyed, he’s not going to forget that, but she did get what they were going for. “I think she just got a little too excited, what with the extra show and all.”

He pulls at his sweats as he talks, bunching them up his legs to get more cloth where he needs it to stay decent. They’re just about holding on, but he can feel air coming up through the rips and his groin’s much more ventilated than he normally would like.

Stiles glances down at him, and Chris smells a little peaked interest mixed in with chagrin as Stiles’ eyes stray to a set of slits that are showing a lot of thigh. “Yeah, that. That too,” he says, dragging his gaze over to a very smug Erica. “I’m pretty sure we had a rule about nonconsensual stripping during spars. And what, the rest of you all want a piece of Chris now?”

Jackson, of all people, rolls his eyes and then gets up. He tosses a water bottle each in front of Chris and Erica, and then strolls back towards the house. “He’s gonna go commando, he’s pretty much holding up a giant sign saying look here,” he says. “Not that I’m interested, because I’m not, but if it is literally swinging in my face, it’s not my fault if I check it.”

“That’s victim-shaming, Jackson,” Allison says. She and Scott are standing a good three yards apart, and she twitches when Scott throws in a ‘not cool,’ but she at least sounds like she’s having fun again. “Dad, do you want me to grab something from your room?”

“Yeah, that’d be good, thanks,” Chris says. He considers his pants, then carefully folds up his legs in front of him, pulling his knees in with one arm.

Erica makes a disappointed ‘aww’ sound. “But we were just getting to the good part!”

“Haha no,” Stiles says. He’s calmed down a lot, but his tone is nonnegotiable, and he stays standing over Chris till Erica, pouting, moves back to wipe the blood off her face with some wipes Boyd hands her.

“You sure?” Chris says.

Stiles blinks, then looks sharply down at him. Chris scratches off some grass and dirt stuck to the side of his neck; when Stiles’ eyes start moving in that direction, Stiles jerks them away and ends up looking at Chris’ bare knee and calf, and then he makes a face and starts digging his fingers into his eyes. “What, were you actually into that?” he mutters.

“No, except for being happy that Erica’s finally covering up some of those tells,” Chris says dryly. He scratches some more dirt off his arms, and does his best to pretend he doesn’t notice how the tears on his thighs are starting to spread up towards his hips. “But Allison will be back in a couple minutes, and I think I could use a little more exercise.”

“Alpha tag in!” Erica promptly chirps. “Since I _guess_ I’m out now. Gotta give him a challenge, Stiles.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, well…Scott? Hey, Scott,” Stiles says, looking over at the other man. “You haven’t gone yet.”

Scott is frowning at his phone. Then he lifts his head, blinking slowly. “Huh? Oh, sorry. Um, can I go later? The center’s…what do they mean, no doggie biscuits? We just bought some…hang on, I gotta take care of this.”

Chris is guessing that Allison is texting him, because there is no way Scott would’ve thought of that on his own. As is, Scott’s just a little too quick to hurry inside. Stiles stares after him, frowning, and then jerks when Erica whistles at him. He shoots her a glare, then steps backwards. Looks at Chris as he starts to say something.

In the meantime, Chris has grabbed up the water bottle, removed the top, and is in the middle of a long swallow. Of course he flicks his eyes up when his alpha wants his attention, looking attentively over the bottle.

Stiles’ scent swells so full of lust that Boyd jerks his head down, trying to clear his nose, and ends up sneezing noisily. He immediately mumbles an apology to Erica, who’s clearly not angrily elbowing him because he just did it on her hair, but Stiles misses it because he’s shoving his hand over his blushing face.

“Oh, fuck, okay, sorry,” he mutters. He takes a step back, then another one, half-swiveling. “God, this is embarrassing, I’m popping scent boners like a teenager ag—okay, you know what, let’s all take five. I’m gonna—go—ice something. Right.”

Chris watches him run inside, and then sighs. “He’s not coming back out, is he?”

“Nope,” Erica says. “Guarantee he’s going to find some ancient ritual he’s got to do _right_ now, or some paper he forgot to do.”

“Or some body he’s got to bury,” Boyd chimes in.

Chris drops his own head into his hand. “Thanks, that’s plenty.”

“Why are _you_ being all depressed for? This is way better than if he’d agreed,” Erica says. She raises her hand and Isaac, who’s been on the porch the whole time, throws her Chris’ phone, which she then tosses into his lap. “Check your ratings. He’s so into it that he doesn’t think he can flirt. This is like, Lydia-level stuff.”

Chris doesn’t check his ratings. Chris sits and thinks that over, and then checks that Stiles is out of eavesdropping range. Then he flips open his phone and opens up his email.

“What are you doing?” Erica asks.

“Rearranging my work meetings so I’m not around when he tries to apologize to me,” he says. “I think I can stay out tonight, but I got nothing tomorrow now.”

Erica looks surprised, and then a smile spreads across her face as she literally wiggles in delight. “You are _so_ much more fun when you’re being bad, Daddy,” she says, and then slaps her hand over her mouth. “Okay, that honestly slipped out. Don’t kill me now that the alphas are gone. Also, when are you guys working on that thing that we’re not supposed to tell Daddy Stilinski about?”

“Starting after lunch tomorrow,” Chris says after a weak glare at her.

“He’s got morning classes, we just have to handle breakfast,” Boyd says.

“So come have that with me and Scott,” Isaac says, coming over. When Erica looks at him, he makes an offended face at her and then flaps his hand at Chris. “I gave up my bedroom for this, I’m invested too. Anyway, pretend you went over to poke Scott about this new intern after you finished work and stayed to have his pancakes.”

Chris personally thinks his pancakes are better. Also, honestly, he’s not sure that won’t turn into the truth. “I’m trying to stay out of that. Allison asked me to.”

Erica and Isaac sigh, and then Isaac throws up his hands. “Well, then you ran out of wolfsbane and we were closer or you’re bonding with me or whatever,” he says. “You do need to get away for breakfast, okay, or else he’ll definitely corner you and breakfast is too early for that talk.”

“Yeah, he needs to stew on it for at least two meals before you pull the whole ‘actually I don’t mind’ line,” Erica says.

“Fine, we’ll bond,” Chris says. He works on rescheduling for a few more seconds, then snaps a snarl out the side of his mouth. “Back off, Erica.”

“Grumpy grumpy,” Erica mutters, crawling back to Boyd. “Well, I’m bored now. Isaac?”

“Can we start bonding now?” Isaac yelps, a second before she jumps him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So backstory - when Stiles' Mom died and he inherited, the remaining adults in the pack split and mostly took their families with them. I have in mind that Boyd was an orphan by that point, but Erica's parents were still alive, and they ultimately decided to leave her behind when they went, rather than force her to come, and then ended up getting killed as (technically) omegas.
> 
> Re-scenting: Anybody who has a pet cat or dog, and who's taken them away for a while and then comes back, knows exactly what I mean about the urge to start making everything smell like cat/dog again.
> 
> Erica is referring to Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Incidentally, the way werewolves fight on the show is terrible, and I know very little about fighting aside from years of watching really pulpy action films (admittedly, though, people like Jean Claude Van Damme have trained as actual fighters). But wide-open windmilling swipes at people with nothing blocking them from nailing your entire front? Nobody ever seems to try just punching with a fist? Kali's roundhouse kicks going for the face rather than, I don't know, a disemboweling move, or a leg-breaker? Ugh. I think actual human martial-arts fighters might not have too much trouble with them. And anybody from an Asian gangster film (where the fighting derives more from Chinese opera than actual martial arts, a lot of the time) would wipe the floor with them.


	5. Chapter 5

Chris manages to get to Scott’s place just in time to crash on the couch. In the morning, he borrows their shower, then does eat some of Scott’s pancakes while Scott awkwardly tries to talk about anything except Allison. Which is still very difficult for him, and Chris would find it very flattering on his daughter’s behalf if he wasn’t also trying to not just ask Scott why he can’t get his head on straight and just make her happy.

“So, bonding,” Isaac says. He and Chris sit and stare at each other across the kitchen table, while Scott is in his bedroom trying to get together everything he needs for the day.

Isaac nods, Chris nods back, and then Isaac gets up and goes into the next room and starts gently reminding Scott to get this or grab that. He’s actually slightly more effective in getting Scott out the door than Stiles, who just resorts to getting things for Scott but who then ends up arguing with Scott about whether things like anti-succubus charms are really essential day-to-day items.

Once those two are gone, Chris spends some time checking in with his various contacts in the werewolf, law enforcement and hunter communities (since, it turns out, hunting’s not just a human-family tradition). Kills an hour sniffing around the place—he doesn’t break any locks, but Scott’s not great with runes so he doubts there’s anything stashed away that he can’t just sniff out. And Scott hasn’t had any strangers up long enough to leave scents, which makes Chris feel a little better about Allison.

Chris heads back to the pack rental for lunch, and volunteers to help with dishes afterward. So when he and Stiles finally meet up for the next batch of financial records, he’s more than a little damp, courtesy of Boyd and the sink’s hose attachment.

“Do you want to change?” Stiles says, looking at him. Looking a lot at how Chris’ wet shirt-collar is dragging away from his collarbone, but the man’s not smelling of anything.

“I don’t have any shirts till the laundry’s done,” Chris says, frowning. “Are you wearing masking charms?”

Stiles makes the same face as when he’s caught with magical artifacts he promised he wasn’t going to experiment with. “Yeah. So, um, we should talk about something first, I guess.”

Chris looks attentive while twisting up his shirt to squeeze out some water. And maybe that makes him feel more than a little ridiculous, given that he’s a man with a nearly-grown daughter who’s pulling _Girls Gone Wild_ moves, but it also gets his belly a quick look from Stiles.

Then Stiles jerks his head up and puts his hand over his eyes. “Yeah. Okay, like just now—and the other day, when I kind of—I don’t know, maybe they’re drugging the water with hormones or something. Anyway, I know I’ve been kind of pervier than usual and—”

After giving his shirt a last couple twists, Chris slaps the rattail he’s made against his forearm, then releases it. Lets it unravel on its own while he’s rubbing his arms against his jeans. “Pervy?”

Stiles started peeking through his fingers before the first slap, and now he just drops his hand entirely. “Uh, Chris, I was _this_ close to just rolling you.”

Chris shrugs, and also, sits down on the couch so he’s looking up at Stiles. He flips open his laptop and then hooks over his calculator and notebook, still looking up. “Well, it was sparring practice.”

That’s a little too far. Stiles’ eyes narrow, even though his shoulders have spread back, automatically bulking out in response to Chris’ lower position. “Okay, now I’m starting to think I’m being screwed with. There’s no way you didn’t smell that, I don’t think any masking runes would cover that up, even if I’d had them on me.”

Shit, Chris thinks. He ducks his head to hide his grimace, frantically trying to come up with something, and his gaze happens to cross a high school lacrosse trophy topping off the jumble of books and boxes of printer paper in the corner. “Stiles, I might not have had the nose back then, but I had the eyes and I was around when you were a teenager,” he says, shrugging. “I guess I’m maybe a little surprised you still think I’m good-looking, but at my age I should probably learn to not question a compliment.”

“Oh, what, come on, you sound like you’re all wrinkled and whatever,” Stiles scoffs. He plops into the armchair to Chris’ side and then leans over to open up his own laptop. “I bit you, hello? Slowed aging process.”

“I wasn’t exactly young when you did that,” Chris says. “And it’s been a couple years. You’ve had time to get out and look around since then.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, and you’re still hot. Um. Fuck.”

Chris grins at the bank statement he’s pulling up, and absolutely avoids looking over so he can’t blow this more than he already has. “Thanks, alpha.”

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters. He taps away for a few seconds, then stops and sighs. “I mean…I said back when I bit you, that kind of thing, I wouldn’t make it…weird.”

“You weren’t weird about it,” Chris says. He finishes highlighting the line, then looks over at the other man. “You aren’t weird about it. I mean thank you when I say thank you, Stiles. It’s—it’s nice. I don’t get that many looks these days.”

“Okay, now you’re fucking with me again,” Stiles says.

Chris presses his lips together, then decides he’ll go for this one. He can’t smell Stiles but like he told the man, he’s got eyes, and Stiles is being oddly revealing with his posture, all stiff with his limbs pulled in towards himself. It’s not often that the man lets so much show. “I don’t mean looks in general,” he says, slowly, taking his time over picking the words. “But women, I can’t—you know, that year Victoria was gone and we didn’t for sure that she was dead, every time a woman smiled at me, I saw her face and I—it still doesn’t really feel right. And men, all right, that’s not a problem but the ones I’m meeting usually are trying to kill us.”

Stiles nods in sympathy, rubbing at the side of his face. He tilts on the arm he’s got propping up his head and his body slants a little towards Chris. “Man, I hear you on that. But even Scott gets a d—um, I mean, an accidental coffee friend or two who actually isn’t even remotely connected to anything. So maybe it’s just where you’re looking? We could—”

“Thanks, but I’m not looking for that. I already went the keep them in the dark route, didn’t work out too well. I try not to repeat my mistakes,” Chris says. “Speaking of, I know you’ve all tried setting Scott up. And Allison.”

“And it totally didn’t work, and those two are just Superglued on each other.” Stiles glances at Chris, then reaches out and puts his hand on Chris’ shoulder. “At least this means it’s really true love?”

Chris rolls his eyes, and yeah, shifts himself a little bit closer to Stiles. “That’s not the part about them that still worries me. But anyway—I’m tired of hiding things from people, pretending to be someone I’m not. I actually have to do _less_ of that now than I had to as a hunter, and I don’t want to go back to how it was. I guess the flipside of that is there’s really only a few people in my life who are going to see that. And who aren’t on the other end of a gun.”

He looks at Stiles as long as he dares, then turns away and blindly scrolls through the bank statement. Stiles…doesn’t say anything, but his hand stays on Chris’ shoulder for a few seconds. Then he pulls it abruptly back. He coughs awkwardly and for a couple minutes they both just work on their laptops.

“So I checked out that distribution from last time, it’s a bequest from a woman Alexander Argent saved from a rogue omega way back in the seventies,” Chris says. “She left us shares in a company that was liquidated, that’s why it came up like that. Not a shell company.”

Stiles makes an annoyed sound. “Well, damn, back to the drawing board. So…it’s cool that I find you hot.”

Chris laughs, and then scratches at the side of his neck, pulling his shirt-collar down. It’s dried to that irritating, slightly stiff stage, and frankly, he thinks he could probably excuse taking it off. But he’s not going to push his luck that much. And anyway, if he takes it off, then he can’t keep tugging it and pushing up the hem and getting Stiles to flick looks at his stomach.

“Yeah, I’m fine with that,” he says, giving his shirt another twitch. “So I keep running into these deposits from something called Hastur Inc. You see any?”

Stiles starts. “Um, I don’t…give me a sec, let me run a search.”

“Sure,” Chris says. He pats at the front of his shirt, frowns, and then scoots back from the computer so he can bunch that up again and see if any more water squeezes out.

Stiles moves his laptop screen so it blocks his line of sight, and then slowly, as he’s busily typing away, bobs his head up till he’s looking over it again. And so on, and so on, and all in all, it’s a pretty productive afternoon for Chris.

* * *

“Good news, Dad,” Allison says, coming into the bedroom. “Stiles bribed me with a fresh batch of wolfsbane-soaked arrowheads to find out whether you’re currently dating anyone.”

Chris doesn’t look up. He’s a professional, and right now he’s in the middle of putting back together his freshly-cleaned rifle, and he depends on each and every part being just right in order to make his shots. So he finishes that, and then he looks up. “For him, or for finding out how he can help me get somebody else?”

Allison looks at him. Then reaches out and shuts the door with one arm, and then falls back against it, crossing her arms over her chest and looking disappointed. “Dad, seriously, a little optimism?”

He’s not falling for it. “If he’s trying to set me up with somebody, that’s something we need to cut off right away,” he says. “Not just because it’s not what we want—”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Allison mutters, rolling her eyes. Then she looks at him again and she almost winces before just waving her hand dismissively. “No, it wasn’t a big deal, and…and I kind of asked them to take me out. Actually, I might do that again. I can’t just study and patrol and never have fun.”

Chris…really didn’t want to have to jump in, for both their sakes. And yeah, that tiny, irrationally paranoid bit of father in him just doesn’t want to know about her dating, period. But he knows that particular tone of Allison’s, and he wants her to be happy more than he cares about his own issues. “Please tell me you’re not doing this just because of this intern.”

Allison starts to deny it, and then she just peels herself off the door and comes over and sits on the bed by him. “I don’t _think_ he likes her,” she says, half to herself. She’s looking at the floor, and rubbing her arms, and smelling afraid. “She’s really not his type. She…she’s kind of pretty, though.”

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” Chris says firmly. He reaches over and slings his arm around her shoulders, and then keeps it there till he gets a smile from her. “And listen, you should get out and have fun once in a while, but do it because you want to, not because you think it’ll make you more like her. You don’t need to do that.”

She laughs a little, still sounding unsure, but she loosens up her grip on herself. “Thanks, Dad,” she says. She pauses, then glances up at him. “I know you and Scott…but Dad, honestly, do you…do you think he’s still waiting because he’s not ready, or because he just doesn’t like me anymore?”

Chris presses his lips together, then takes a deep breath. “Allison, he loves you. Believe me, anything less and I would’ve scared him off already.”

They’re good enough these days that Allison just laughs, pressing her face into his shoulder. She leans against him for another minute, then pulls back and looks at him with her determined face. “Well, okay, enough about me. So, I don’t think he wants to help you date. He had the charms on but I _think_ he looked relieved. And then he looked really embarrassed about that, and then he had to go commit a burglary with Erica.”

“What?” Chris says.

“It’s just a vending machine, don’t worry about it, we got all the security cameras,” Allison says dismissively. “So I think we’re good to move onto stage two. I guess we still have to check with Lydia, but—”

Chris pulls out his phone and scrolls through it, then holds it up so that she can see the text authorizing initiation of Operation Moonstruck.

Allison raises her brows. “Really, we’ve got codenames now? I know we had a budget and a blocked-out timeline, but that’s being organized. We sound like a bunch of corny spies now.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s all Erica,” Chris mutters. “Though why Lydia’s going along with it, I don’t—anyway, so I was thinking we’re good enough to go on, but it’s good to hear that he’s…that he is that interested.”

“Dad, he’s always been, he just didn’t know it was serious,” Allison says, smiling at him. She gives him a playful push, then reaches back and hugs him. “He’s not going to know what hit him. I firmly believe that.”

* * *

The full moon—Chris refuses to give it an operational nickname, let alone a dumb one like Erica’s suggestion—is a bust. And it isn’t. And generally, by the time dawn rolls around, Chris feels like he’s been hit by he doesn’t know what.

What is supposed to happen is: 

As usual, the pack gathers at the Stilinski house and then runs off their urges in the preserve, which abuts the property. Chris and John and the alphas have checked off everything and there shouldn’t be anything or anyone out there to worry about, and there’s even a temporary ban on camping in the preserve due to some recent mudslides, so they have a bigger area than usual to tear around in.

Maybe because he’s older, maybe because he came in with a lot of mental training from being a hunter, the full moon doesn’t push on Chris as much as it does on the younger betas. He’s not as controlled as the alphas, but he can hold it together enough that he’s usually the last one to head out into the woods—besides John and Lydia, who wait it out together on the back porch with weapons, fully-charged phones and snacks—so he can circle the perimeter and catch anybody who strays too close to the town, or to people who aren’t in the know. And, this time, so he can do a little solo hunting.

Between all of them, they’ve got hunting permits to cover pretty much any animal in the woods that can be legally hunted, but in practice the pack usually goes for a deer or an elk. Stiles, however, is pretty fond of anything pig-shaped, so Chris goes looking for a wild boar.

It’s rut season, so he doesn’t have a problem finding one, or luring it away from the rest of them. Actually, one of the rut-crazed males charges him the moment Chris moves from down- to upwind, and the biggest problem is how to kill it without mangling the hide, because Chris needs that. He’s planning to drag the carcass back to the Stilinski house, and the meat will go towards the dinner table, while innards are earmarked for some spellwork Lydia and Jackson are doing for a client of theirs. As for the hide, Chris is going to stretch and tan it, and then make Stiles a new set of book-covers for his most tattered grimoires and herbalries.

What actually happens is: 

Chris kills the boar, and he’s halfway through gutting it, with blood and pig shit all over his arms and front, when he senses another werewolf coming. The boar is absolutely reeking with rut-scent so he can’t smell who it is, just that it’s pack. So he keeps on working, not hurrying, and that calm feeling alone probably should be a giveaway.

He realizes it’s Stiles just a couple seconds before the wolf trots up to the other side of the carcass. Both alphas can full shift but Scott can only manage it for a few minutes at a time before he loses focus, whereas Stiles was full shifting before he could walk as a human, by all reports, and always moves like he was born in that skin. 

Chris loses another couple seconds just watching, and then remembers _why_ he’s got the boar in the first place. He shifts human, he’s so thrown, and before he can say anything, Stiles shifts too. Stretches out his arms, then drops back into a crouch, grinning at Chris.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he says casually.

“Sure,” Chris says, because what else could he do?

Stiles’ smile goes a little fixed, and then he stops smiling completely. He looks at Chris, then at the boar. Then at Chris again. He lifts his hand and scruffs at his hair, and then lowers it to grab his shoulder, looking uncomfortable. “So, um, are you—are you trying to court me?”

“Shit,” Chris says. Then freezes.

So yeah, Stiles is not stupid. Stiles is very, very smart, and very, very good at taking the tiniest clues and putting one and one together to come up not only with two, but also a five-point plan for eliminating two. So of course they’ve discussed the possibility of him figuring out what’s going on, and confronting Chris.

The thing is, they all figured that Stiles would come in with all cylinders firing, yelling out questions and accusations while pointing his fingers at each one of them for their part, and just generally being dramatic about it. Nobody, not even Lydia, had thought he’d just walk up and ask Chris.

“And…that’s your I didn’t think you’d catch on for at least another couple of episodes face,” Stiles sighs. He plops back on his ass and absently fluffs a few dead leaves away from himself, then pulls his hands back to rub a few times at his knees, smelling embarrassed and regretful and…and really frustrated. “Chris. It’s…I’m—well, okay, first of all, I’m not mad at you. I’m really not. It’s just—goddamn it, haven’t we gone through this already?”

Chris still doesn’t have his mouth under control, damn it. “No? What—I only just figured—”

“I mean, I keep telling you and telling you, I get it, I really get it. You’re not like your dad, and you’re with us, and yeah, I’m not gonna lie, people still have PTSD involving you guys but it’s not like you personally have to make up for every death Gerard’s caused,” Stiles says. He’s not looking at Chris; he has his head down, fist grinding into his forehead as he irritably waves around his other hand. “You want to _help_ , that’s cool. But this—I don’t know what you think it is, some weird version of a life-debt or whatever—”

“What, wait—wait, wait, Stiles. Stiles, _alpha_ , no, that’s not—” Chris starts to crawl over the boar, then curses as a wad of pig shit squishes under him, stinking up the whole place. He drags his knee back out of it, happens to see the crap on his hands, and starts scrubbing his fingers off on the boar’s side as he leans over the carcass, trying to at least get his presence into Stiles’ face. Get his alpha’s attention because this is going so wrong, so fast. “That’s not why. I’m not doing this because I feel guilty, for God’s sake. Why the hell would you think that?”

Stiles looks up at him. One eye squinted from the fist pushing into his cheek, the other wistful but disbelieving. “Chris. Come on. The first two months you were around, you nearly killed yourself shadowing everybody on patrols, and it wasn’t because you were screwing up. It was because you slept so little you started _hallucinating_ that my mother was ordering you to protect us.”

Chris winces, because yeah, that happened. But he keeps leaning over the boar, head low but eyes staring Stiles dead on, because damn it, that _happened_. It’s over, and anyway, there were some other issues. “My father also sneaked a Phobetor idol into my gun case before we left him.”

“And then, that time you and Dad went down to the police station to help them out with the poppetry case, and Dad accidentally got mind-controlled by a crazy antique-doll collector, you let him shoot three full clips into you,” Stiles says. “So they weren’t wolfsbane bullets, but we still had to get a healer in because beta werewolf healing has a problem reconstructing stuff from _pulverized bone dust_. And when he went to apologize, you just said you had it coming.”

“Because he went after me because that asshole was manipulating people to act out their resentments. I still think it was just as well he got it all off his chest at once, considering the whole next month,” Chris mutters. Then sees the way Stiles’ face closes off, mentally kicks himself, and takes a deep breath. “But Stiles—yeah, I know I was pretty screwed up about some things. But I got better.”

Stiles closes both eyes and rubs his fingers up and down the bridge of his nose. “You got better.”

“I got—fine, am I over it? Honestly, no.” Chris finally just shoves the boar out of the way and then crawls over to hunch down right in front of Stiles, blood and guts and boar feces be damned. He doesn’t touch the man but he gets as close as he can otherwise, close enough so that Stiles has to hear his heartbeat, hear how steady it is. “I still have my bad moments. But they’re _moments_ now, just moments, and that’s because of you. And that’s why I’m doing this, Stiles. Alpha. Because I _don’t_ feel guilty about you.”

Stiles still isn’t looking at him. Chris—doesn’t know what else to say. His throat’s closing up with the need to come up with something, _anything_ that will convince his alpha. But he can’t think of the words. He just—he can’t think.

He’s torn up several inches of the ground before he realizes his claws have come out, and even then, Chris can’t will them back in. He doesn’t have the energy to spare; everything he’s got is trying to figure out a way to make this right. _Say something_ , Chris snarls at himself, and then he’s almost snarling for real, as air tries to force its way past his locked-down throat.

Just clear that, just come up with something, but Chris can’t make his vocal cords open up. He ends up whining instead, whining and staring at Stiles, trying to beg the man to at least look at him.

It works. Stiles jerks his head up, eyes bright red, and then stares at Chris. He’s still incredulous but it’s—it’s different. He’s focused not on the situation, but on Chris, on the strangled, small, desperate noises that are coming from Chris’ throat. When a low, gravelly, soothing noise comes from him, he starts and then blinks as if he doesn’t know who made it.

Chris whines louder, instinct seizing on that noise, and then shifts his knees out so that he can get himself lower to the ground. Stiles straightens up and Chris flattens out even more, arching his back so his belly’s touching the ground. His alpha puts his hands down on the ground and leans forward on them, still frowning, but he’s responding so Chris is doing something right.

“You can’t—” Stiles sounds about an octave deeper than usual, voice so full of reassuring grumbles that the words can hardly be made out “—you’re not that good, you can’t fake that—”

“Alpha,” Chris rasps. He risks dropping his eyes. Hates that he can’t see how Stiles is reacting, but that’s just the leftover human part of him. The werewolf knows from Stiles’ scent, from the way Stiles shapes himself over Chris, sniffs the air over Chris’ back, that his alpha understands what he means. “Alpha. _My_ alpha.”

Stiles’ rumble stretches out, so long that it’s nearly a croon. Chris purrs in response, then edges forward, just till he feels the warmth of his alpha’s arms on either side of his head. He pauses, but when the rumble just starts up again, he dares to slip in between them, putting the vulnerable back of his neck right under Stiles’ mouth. 

And then, very slowly, he tilts his head to the side. His temple and then his ear touch one of Stiles’ arms. It shifts and he freezes, but when it goes still again, he presses the side of his face firmly against it. Pauses, waiting, and then he starts rubbing his chin along Stiles’ forearm. Still purring, still offering himself.

He senses Stiles’ other arm lift and he twitches, but keeps purring till Stiles’ hand closes over his nape. Then Chris stops breathing completely for a few seconds. Every bit of his body is strung out on tension, sparked with it, and it’s agonizing but he has to wait, to allow his alpha to make up his mind.

Stiles has gone silent too. Then, very suddenly, he inhales sharply. His fingers tighten; his claws are out, and their tips prick Chris’ skin, just shy of drawing blood. If Chris moves even a hair, they will.

He inhales again. Chris feels a whimper rise and half-die in his throat. Stiles hears it too, and he—he makes a harsh, catching sound Chris doesn’t know how to read, it’s human, not wolf, and then—

—then he purrs, and he’s going to twist Chris over onto his side, lay him belly-out under his alpha, Chris can feel the beginnings of that in the muscles of Stiles’ fingers against his throat, and the first wild flush of happiness starts going through him and—

Something shifts abruptly at Chris’ back. The boar carcass, slumping down, and Stiles is already whirling around. Stiles is roaring, is _furious_ , is—Chris is dazed, whiplashed with the signals, alpha-submit alpha-defend, and then some asshole fires a bullet into Chris’ leg.

* * *

Wherever Gerard is finding these hunters, it’s not anywhere with decent training. They would never have gotten that close if Stiles and Chris had been doing anything else—if they’d been having a blowout, knockdown fight for leadership of the pack, they still would’ve noticed the two men.

As it is, that bullet was going for something vital and Chris moved enough so that it just burrows into the meaty part of his calf. Wouldn’t be a problem if the damn thing wasn’t filled with wolfsbane.

Stiles has one man killed and the other unconscious by the time Chris gets over. He’s got one of the men’s guns opened up, shaking out a bullet, when Chris spots the oddly bulky pockets on the men’s belts and connects the dots with an old idea of his father’s that he’d shot down years and years ago, and throws himself at Stiles.

They’re at the top of a rise and they tumble down it a few yards before Stiles grabs a tree and stops their fall. Cursing, kicking at his slowly numbing leg, Chris barrels into Stiles again, and just barely gets them clear as the belts explode.

“Oh, for—” Stiles starts, and then his nostrils flare.

The belts are filled with powdered wolfsbane and mountain ash, which the night breeze quickly spreads far beyond the blast radius. Stiles grabs Chris by one arm and leaps again, but enough mountain ash gets on Chris—probably stuck to all the boar’s blood and other fluids on him—that he’s suddenly struck from Stiles’ grip like one of those old cartoon sequences where a bank vault drops on you.

Wind driven from him, Chris claws at the ground, hearing his alpha call back to him, hearing Stiles frantically stalking back and forth just a few feet away, but he can’t—he manages to get his shoulders and one leg up off the ground, but collapses after just a few inches of crawling. He feels like he’s carrying a thousand tons on his back, and that wolfsbane is still working through his blood, coming up his leg. He’s numb to the knee now.

Stiles howls. He’s calling pack-come-bring- _everything_ —Chris instinctively tries to join in, but the mountain ash is slowly crushing his lungs and he can barely breathe. It comes out a garbled scream instead.

“I am going to _murder_ that son of a bitch,” Stiles swears, and then he howls again. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Chris—fuck, okay, stay—stay. I can hear a stream—just, I’ll be back, just—don’t fucking die. Jesus Christ, don’t—a couple minutes, damn it, I need a couple minutes—”

Chris whines. He won’t leave, why would he leave?

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles says, and then runs off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hastur Inc. is a reference to the _King in Yellow_ mythos.
> 
> Phobetor is a Greek god of nightmares.
> 
> Stiles and Scott have other problems here, so yeah, they get the cool full-shift business. For this fic, then, they can choose between the partial shift, the alpha shift, and the full-wolf shift.
> 
> Werewolf healing - how uneven are you, show? Alpha!Peter nails beta!Derek multiple times with what should be instantaneously fatal injuries, but Derek's cool. Derek is forced to shove his claws into what appear to be Boyd's lungs (not heart, or even aorta!), and Boyd dies within minutes. So honestly, I don't even really try to stay with the show on that one; if I'm internally consistent within a story, that's good enough for me.
> 
> I've noted this before, but the show is super-uneven about how mountain ash is used, and the extent to which werewolves can interact with it (some shots make it look like a forcefield thing, but alpha!Peter can toss a chair over a mountain ash barrier). And for some reason werewolves never just try and use a stick or something similar to break a ring; conversely, nobody's tried just throwing a handful at a werewolf to see what would happen? Anyway, so for this fic, again, I'm aiming for internal consistency over sticking exactly to what canon shows. Because canon contradicts itself all over the place.


	6. Chapter 6

Jackson ends up being nearest, and he and Stiles soak clothing in that stream and then push the wet clothes over the ground around Chris, trying to wipe back the bomb scatter. They’re nearly up to Chris when Boyd and Erica show up, with a fire extinguisher from the Stilinski house that Stiles frantically works over with runes, then uses to spray off ash till they can pick Chris up.

By then Chris is numb up to the waist, and mostly unconscious from lack of air. They drag him down to the stream and Jackson dunks him to get off whatever ash is left, holds him up so Stiles can jam burnt wolfsbane into his bullet wound, and then dunks him till he wakes up enough to slap the man away.

Stiles isn’t there, but Chris can hear him and Erica—and his father, John must’ve driven out as soon as somebody ran into his backyard—talking about clean-up, further up the hill. Scott’s down by the stream, standing guard while Allison pulls Chris out of the stream and then buries her sobbing face in his shoulder. He can smell that Isaac was around but can’t tell where the man went; Jackson’s gone to help Boyd with something.

“Isaac went to go help Lydia deal with the rangers,” Scott says, squatting down. “Look, we’ve got it under control now, I think you should—maybe you should—oh, damn it, Chris, _stay down_.”

Scott uses the alpha command tone. And he’s weary and worried and, since he’s Scott, a little awkward about it, but he’s still an alpha. Chris flinches back into Allison’s arms, then reluctantly stops trying to get to his feet. “The bombs—Gerard talked to me about them once, I said no because that much scatter, you can’t be sure you wouldn’t poison humans too, but—”

Chris sounds like shit, and his voice runs out into a prolonged hacking that ends in a nasty little pile of black gunk on the ground. Allison stops sobbing and starts snarling, and it’s at him. “Dad, I swear to God, if you try and go off right _now_ ,” she says. “We’ll get them, all right? Just, not now, right now you are going straight home.”

“—it’s just, we couldn’t—” Chris just manages to not waste his voice on swear words “—couldn’t get bombs to work anyway, wolfsbane and ash just—just burnt the hell up, wasn’t any good, he must’ve found—someone—”

“We’re _on_ it,” Scott promises, looking him in the eye. Certain of himself, determined, and yeah, Chris trusts him to keep his word. It’s just—

“Dad,” Allison says, more softly. “Please.”

So Chris bites his lip, and then he stops fighting. Allison glares at him for another second, and then hugs him fiercely. He stiffens, hating himself for putting her through this shit yet again. And then he hugs her too, shaking a little bit.

* * *

The full moon happened on a Thursday. The couple pack members who have Friday classes skip them, and everybody piles into the Stilinski house for the weekend.

Chris is a little out of it for a while. The mountain ash came close to suffocating him, which had the sole benefit of also keeping him from breathing in too much of the wolfsbane, but he still got enough to be coughing up black gunk all night. Boyd apparently got a bigger whiff of it, so Erica and John have him shot up with tranquilizers and locked in the basement till the hallucinations wear off.

So Chris ends up in the master bedroom, he’s guessing because of the adjoining bathroom where he can spend his time spitting crap into the toilet. He’s surprised at first, but once he manages to pick his head up, it’s clear that John hasn’t used the room in a while. Even without looking, Chris can smell a lot more Stiles, and then Allison and Scott help him get to the bed and they have to root out a bunch of random charms and dogeared books from the sheets first. Definitely not John’s stuff.

“John’s in the downstairs bedroom,” Lydia says, when she drops by to quiz Chris on what his goddamned father is up to. “We already dealt with the local law, story is that it was just some morons fooling around with homemade explosives. We had to leave your boar, but it was too mangled anyway. It got caught in the blast radius.”

Chris grimaces, then pushes himself up on his arms. He still feels a little shaky, and his throat and mouth feel like they’ve been sandpapered down, but he doesn’t think he’s going to heave again. “Yeah, well, it went towards the alibi at least, right?”

Lydia nods. “We’re saying they must have been testing the bombs on wild animals.”

“Least it didn’t go to waste,” he mutters. He rubs his head and then his mouth, and then looks up as she hands him a glass of water. Nods in thanks, then checks on where Allison is: downstairs in the kitchen, telling Scott to stop worrying about her. “Okay. So Dad wasn’t a chemist, never was. If he got those damned bombs to work, it’s because he found somebody to do it for him. John have anything on that yet?”

“He’s reached out, and we’re running searches, but it’s going to be a few days, and that’s once we figure out how to get the evidence from the sheriff and to one of our forensic labs,” Lydia says. She’s perched on the side of the bed, typing away on her laptop as she speaks with him. “It’d help if you—”

“I’d give you names if I could, but thing is, I kind of thought we’d killed off most of the people in Gerard’s contacts list. I _know_ we killed off anybody I’d bother calling,” Chris says. He drinks the water slowly, trying to rack his brain for something, but nothing comes up before he’s done with the glass. “Shit. How mad is he?”

Lydia stops typing, but it’s another second before she looks up at him. “I assume you’re referring to Stiles.”

Chris makes an exasperated noise, setting the glass aside. “You know about any other alpha who I nearly got killed lately?”

She stares at him for a little longer, lips tight, face annoyed and giving away very little else. Her banshee side makes her scents strange, hard to read even for people who’ve known her for years.

And then Lydia lets out a small, incredulous sniff, as if this is just another stupid move by one of them. “I cannot deal with this right now,” she says, shutting her laptop. “I have three packs to reach out to, deputies to charm, and morgues to raid. I’ll send somebody up to sit with you.”

“What?” Chris says. He watches her get almost to the door, then snaps himself out of it and starts climbing off the bed. “What the hell—Lydia, what are you—”

The wolfsbane, apparently, hasn’t totally worked out of Chris’ system. He doesn’t throw up again but his knees do cut out from under him, sprawling him on his face. And by the time he gets back up, his claws sunk into a bedpost for support, Lydia’s gone and he’s looking instead at Stiles.

“What are you doing?” Stiles snaps. “Get back in bed.”

Chris gets back in bed so fast that he nearly rips the sheets, forgetting to sheath his claws, and he hasn’t been that careless since he was first turned.

Stiles winces, then starts to rub at his face. Then takes his hand down and sighs and comes over to the bed. He’s got a plate of food and some silverware in one hand, and with his other, empty, hand, he motions for Chris to come back. When Chris hesitates, Stiles’ smell flares with anger but the sound that comes out of Stiles’ mouth is a soft, encouraging purr.

Chris edges back. Stiles keeps purring and slowly, Chris starts to as well. He keeps his head down, angling to show the side of his throat, and doesn’t raise it till Stiles reaches out and wraps his fingers around his nape. And even then, Chris waits for his alpha to urge him up, purring and nuzzling at Chris’ temple, hand curling to press firmly across his spine. He’s shivering with the effort of not just plunging forward, but he lets Stiles be the one to tuck his head against one shoulder, to slide fingers up into Chris’ hair and adjust him so Chris is scenting skin and not clothing.

At that point Chris can’t help himself and he reaches up too, gets a double fistful of Stiles’ shirt-tails. He noses at his alpha, rubbing up as much scent as he can, trying to concentrate on Stiles’ steady heartbeat and not his own, only just slowing from frantic, one.

“Better?” Stiles says after a few minutes.

“Sorry,” Chris mumbles. He rolls his shoulders, then forces his hands to let go of Stiles’ shirt. Turns his head too, so he can sound clearer, but doesn’t lift it. “Yeah, I am. Shit. I am—shit, that was bad.”

“You’ve been worse.” Stiles pets the back of his head a few more times, then stops moving his head. He shrugs. “And hey, well, you’re the proud survivor of yet another entry in the thousand and one ways to fuck with werewolves that Gerard’s compiling. Can’t blame you for a little freaking out.”

Chris makes a face, because that might all be true, but…he really should be used to this shit by now. He’s not any good like this. “Yeah, well, still. Wasn’t the only one there.”

Stiles’ hand tightens a fraction on Chris’ head—Chris just bites back the automatic whimper—and then a frustrated noise boils up in Stiles’ throat. It doesn’t quite make it out, but Chris is pressed up close enough to hear how messy its death is. “Okay, just—for God’s sake, if you say sorry for _distracting_ me—”

“Then I’d have to admit you should be having the kind of life where it’s natural to constantly be watching out for my goddamn father,” Chris says.

The fingers on his head slide down to Chris’ nape. They curl there, comforting, while Stiles’ shoulder jerks and he sputters a little and then finally heaves out a deep sigh. “Seriously. Every single time I think we’ve figured out your guilt complex, you have to come up with something. Are you trying to piss me off, Chris?”

“Not really, but it’s a little better than you feeling sorry for me,” Chris says, and then he makes himself pull back so that they can look each other in the eye. “Okay. I’m—my head’s clearer, anyway. What are we doing?”

Stiles still has his hand on Chris’ neck. He squeezes it a little, looking incredulously at Chris, and then, when that changes to amusement mixed with some grudging respect, his fingers loosen and then absently press down, starting up a small kneading action. 

“And _then_ you’re back to being a stone-hard asshole, and I really like you for it,” he says. His eyes warm and Chris feels a purr starting up in his throat again, and then Stiles winces stiffly. “Never mind, so—what we’re doing. Well, you’re gonna lie here, and eat this leftover brisket, and—”

“Stiles, my father just tried to kill us. Again,” Chris says. “I’m not eating goddamn _brisket_ while he’s out there running around.”

“You’re eating the brisket if I tell you to eat it,” Stiles snarls, eyes a little red, shoulders spreading out. Then he swears and jerks away, even before Chris’ instincts have fully triggered. By the time Chris is ducking his head and whining, Stiles has already stepped backwards and started scruffing his hair, breaking up the intimidating stance. “Fuck. Fuck. I just—just, Chris, can you not fucking fight me on this right now?”

He looks almost pleading, and Chris can’t—the werewolf instincts are seizing up, not processing that, and Chris can’t really understand it as a person either. Why Stiles should be begging him for anything…but he gets that Stiles is upset, and that he’s the reason why, and that he needs to fix that.

Chris presses his lips together, cutting off the whining. He breathes in through his nose, deep and long, and then carefully swings his legs over the side of the bed. Then he holds out his hand, and after a second, Stiles gives him the plate and cutlery.

“But alpha,” Chris says, while the plate’s weight is still Stiles’ responsibility. He suppresses a wince as Stiles stiffens. “Stiles. Just—just wait. I’ll eat the food, just…”

“Yeah, well, I can’t really run off right now anyway, we’re all waiting for people to get back to us or detox or whatever,” Stiles says, sighing. He pushes the plate into Chris’ hand and then stands in front of Chris, still looking oddly anxious—not about the situation, which would be understandable, but about Chris. “It’s just, we did get those assholes’ phones off them before we had to turn the bodies over to the cops. There’s a whole text thread from your dad about how they don’t get paid if they just get me, they need to take you out too.”

It’s a testament to how much family feeling Chris still has that he doesn’t do anything except roll his eyes. His father’s just burned him out so much. “I guess we should just be glad he’s given up trying to figure out how to make me his beta first,” he says, poking at the brisket. “Least we don’t have to research another damn sacrificial ritual.”

Stiles isn’t amused. Stiles is angry, enough so that Chris’ shoulders flatten and his claws clatter against the plate before they both get hold of themselves. “Chris,” Stiles says, taking a deep breath. He looks at Chris very oddly, as if—as if they’re just meeting, as if he’s never seen Chris before, and then he starts pacing back and forth across the room, occasionally jabbing a finger Chris’ way. “Just, you can’t just—you can’t just _do_ that. I know I said I wasn’t gonna be that kind of alpha, making you all my little wolfy minions, but Jesus fucking Christ, Chris, I don’t know—I don’t know what the hell to do with you sometimes. I mean, look at you, _look_ at you.”

Chris starts to interrupt, but then he gets a good view of Stiles’ eyes and they have that glassiness that means Stiles is deep within some convoluted, yet ultimately genius train of thought that usually ends up giving them the answer to their problems. When he’s like that, it’s better to just let him work through it and then deal with whatever side-effects might come up.

Usually. Right now Stiles is ranting about Chris and how awesome he’s been, and how Stiles didn’t actually think Chris would put up with the pack, even for getting rid of Gerard, but Chris hasn’t just done that, he’s gone and won them over, and Chris just can’t see how this is going to get Gerard killed. But Stiles is so deep in now that Chris would have to tackle him, an alpha werewolf who’s obviously worked up, to get his attention, and Chris has guilt issues but he’s not actively suicidal.

“And then you’re all, hey, alpha, I think you’re amazing too and I’d really like to get in on that, and just, do you get it?” Stiles snaps, abruptly turning to face him. “Do you get how incredibly, insanely hard this is?”

“No,” Chris says honestly. “I…Stiles, I don’t—what are you saying?”

“You said you loved me!” Stiles yells at him. Then he pulls back and rubs his hands over his face, digging his fingers into his hair when they get up there. “I mean, not in so many words, and…and maybe I’m overthinking this. You know what, I’m being a shitty alpha. I’m going and putting words in your mouth and maybe all you wanted was a quick—”

“No,” Chris says, more sharply.

Stiles looks at him. His alpha’s giving him that pained, almost desperate look again, the one that Chris can’t even begin to figure out, except that Chris hates being the one to put it on Stiles’ face. But Chris can’t lie about this. Can’t even think about trying.

“No,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “That’s—that’s what I was saying. And everything I said back there, Stiles. Everything, I meant it. I meant that I’m not doing this for any reason except that I—”

“Your fucking dad almost killed us!” Stiles snaps.

“And I’m sorry!” Chris snaps back. He jerks his hands and they feel off, and then remembers he’s got a plate and a fork and knife in them. Which he shoves aside on the bed, still looking at Stiles. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m another reason why they’re coming, I’m sorry I let them get that close, I’m sorry I didn’t just _shoot_ him back before this all started. But I’m not sorry I’m here, I’m not sorry I feel like this, and I can’t—Stiles, alpha, I can’t—”

Stiles snarls and Chris flinches back, and then he’s _on_ his back. Pressed down, heavy weight over him, holding his wrists and his chest and one leg, and it’s as hard a press as the mountain ash had been but it’s not the same. It’s not terrifying, not painful—it’s _right_.

Chris is moaning, he realizes slowly. Stiles has his head forced back, kissing him fiercely, so fiercely that he can’t keep his head straight under it and he keeps letting Stiles’ mouth slip off his own. He whines in frustration, trying to shift back, and Stiles snarls again. Low, deep, heated but not with anger. It makes Chris still, hold as still as he can and then his alpha gives him what he wants, what he’s been dying for.

Taking his mouth, over and over again, till he can feel his lip splitting under the pressure. That hurts but it’s good pain, something that grounds him, lets him know this is real, that it wouldn’t turn into another nightmare his father’s dreamed up. He tries as best he can to reciprocate, but then Stiles leaves off his mouth and dips under his chin, fastens soft lips and sharp teeth to his throat and he’s left just shuddering, slack mouth spilling moan after moan into the air.

Stiles wrenches himself up, panting, and Chris whimpers at the loss. He still has Stiles’ hands gripping his wrists, one of Stiles’ knees over his thigh, but those aren’t enough, are just little tastes of the heat and the weight he wants covering him, holding him, keeping him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—you have to be so fucking good at laying out too. Goddamn it, Chris, it’s not like all betas just give, Erica didn’t, so why the hell do you have to—”

“Alpha,” Chris rasps. He jerks his chin up, bares as much throat as his spine will let him, short of that snapping. “Please, please, alpha, love you, please—”

Stiles makes a noise like it’s being hooked out of his gut, slow, with something sharp, and then he goes at Chris again. His mouth sucking along Chris’ neck, his knee sliding off Chris’ leg to push up against Chris’ groin, and yeah, Chris lays out for it. Isn’t just his alpha, it’s him, it’s him missing something ever since he went against his whole life to date and took Allison and ran for it. Ran _to_ it, ran for the werewolves he’d spent every waking moment trying to kill and then begged them to take him in, to give him the bite. Made himself something new just so he could keep his daughter safe.

And he’s learned, he’s grown, he’s settled in this life but he was still missing that something, that sense of knowing somebody’s got him. Will get him, will be there when he needs that hand on his neck, when everything else is turning upside-down and inside-out and he just needs somebody to show him where to stand till it’s over. Somebody that will _want_ him standing there, with them. He’s stood alone and apart for so long, not Argent the hunter anymore and it’s so tiring, so rough, and he’s selfish and he wants to stop feeling like that. And now he does.

He feels like he’s being carved up and marked out, with Stiles’ mouth working down his throat. His bite’s long since healed but he almost thinks he can feel the punctures burning into his flesh again, a brand that nobody will ever miss again, and God, he wants that.

But then Stiles pulls back again. Thumps his forehead down against Chris’ chest, the balance of him still stretched over Chris, still that solid line of heat letting Chris mold up to him, but Chris can feel him folding himself away. “Fuck,” Stiles says, his head twisting slightly. “No. Okay. No. Your dad—”

Chris wishes he’d strangled the son of the bitch, with an anger so vicious, so violent that he almost tastes his father’s blood in his mouth, and he’s craving it. And at the same time, with an intensity that would be excruciating even without being tangled up in the anger, he feels horribly cold. He knows what a problem his family history is. He knows, but he’d still hoped—

“No, no, it’s not, I told you, we know you’re good, you’re good,” Stiles suddenly says. Croons, his voice low and soothing, shifting to rub his cheek all along the line of bites he’s pressed into Chris’ throat. “No, no, you’re pack, you’re ours, you’re mine, you’re not his, he can go to hell before he ever gets you—fuck _fuck_.”

Stiles jerks himself off, then flops over onto his back next to Chris. He groans, his hand coming up to cover his face, and then he stiffens. Takes his hand off, sees Chris turning towards him, and immediately pulls himself up and gets off the bed. 

“Okay, see, you’re right, that’s the problem,” he says, wild-eyed, smelling like arousal and anger and frustration and fear. His heartbeat is buzzing like Chris hasn’t ever heard it, outside of a full-on battle. “It’s _not_ that you’re an Argent. Chris, I don’t even give a shit now that it was your dad who had my mom killed. I give a shit that he had her killed, and now he’s trying to have you killed, and don’t you see how this isn’t working?”

“No,” Chris says. He crawls after Stiles, till he gets to the edge of the bed and then Stiles snaps teeth at him and Chris is so desperate that he wants to cross his alpha anyway and keep going. He doesn’t, but he rocks back and forth where he is, gripping the mattress so hard he can feel it start to give. “No, I don’t. We’ll get him, I swear, I’ll get him for you, I’ll get him and—”

“You can’t do that if he gets you first!” Stiles snarls. “And he almost did, and I can’t lose more people, Chris, I can’t. I can’t, and you’ll go for him, I know you will and that’s why I can’t _do this_.”

And then, before Chris can even whimper, Stiles turns around and storms out of the room.

* * *

Ten minutes after Stiles leaves, Chris pulls himself together. It’s not that it wasn’t devastating, having his alpha turn him down, because it was, and Chris is dead certain that the numb feeling he’s got all through him is only the start of it. And it’s not like Chris doesn’t understand what Stiles is saying, because he does. His mind might have gone irrational with beta instincts there, but it’s not like it’s stopped working. 

It’s just that, honestly, Chris is pretty used to having to continue to operate while feeling like half his guts have been pulled out of him. That’s life for them.

The plate’s tipped over and the bedding is covered with brisket juices now, so Chris cleans that up and then changes the sheets. He doesn’t want to go downstairs yet so he bundles them up with the stains inside and then sets them by the door, and then he goes into the bathroom to wash up.

He’s just finishing with that, and trying to figure out what other brainless chores he can do from the bedroom when somebody clears their throat. Scott looks a little apologetic when Chris stiffens, and then he looks very sorry as he gestures vaguely at the floor. “So, Stiles sort of didn’t put up the privacy wards before you two started talking, and we all heard…” he says, grimacing. “You all right?”

Chris sighs. He tugs at the sweats they put him in, then glances away from Scott and at himself in the bathroom mirror. Stiles’ bites are still red and fresh-looking, a straight line of them marching down the side of his throat, with no gaps in between, as precise as if Stiles had been using a ruler. It sure looks like Stiles was certain about what he was doing. What claim he was putting on.

“He, uh, he went out with his dad to start checking into things,” Scott adds.

“Thanks for letting me know,” Chris mutters. He just keeps himself from fingering a bite, and instead rubs at his cheek. He needs to shave. Maybe he can borrow a knife from somebody; if he slips, he’ll heal, unlike with those bites. “Allison?”

“She’s in the car,” Scott says.

Chris looks up. Scott holds out a stack of clothes to him; on top of them are one of his knives and his holstered gun, his charm string and a tube of concealer.

“I know what it’s like when Stiles freaks out like that. He’s done that to me a couple times,” Scott says. When Chris doesn’t immediately take the clothes, Scott puts them down on the counter and then steps closer to Chris. “And I know how he feels, too, because I pulled that with Allison. Except I got lucky and she called me out on it.”

“And you listened,” Chris points out. With more than a little irony, since he remembers just fine how unhappy he was about that at the time.

Scott shrugs, giving Chris a smile that says he also remembers, and completely understands. “Well, I was still a beta, it was a little easier for me,” he says. He raises his hand, hesitates, and then lightly touches Chris’ shoulder. “Listen, he needs a little space. And in the meantime, we got a couple leads.”

Chris straightens up. Knocks Scott’s hand off, and he instinctively pauses, but of course Scott doesn’t look or smell like anything except regretful. “So…Stiles just told me he’s too afraid of me getting hurt, going after Gerard, and that’s why he’s too upset to try. And now we’re going out, and we’re going after Gerard.”

“Stiles is my best friend,” Scott says solemnly, holding Chris’ gaze. “When I turned alpha, he didn’t smell afraid for a second. Even I freaked out some, but he just thought it was cool. ‘Why would I give up my buddy when he’s just gotten better,’ he told me. So if he’s being an idiot, I’m going to help him out.”

“By taking me out,” Chris says.

“Well, I’m going to talk to him too. But we’re studying this concept called kinesthetic learning,” Scott says. “It’s when you learn by doing—”

“I know what it means,” Chris says. Then grimaces, because Scott is offering a hand here, and he should appreciate it.

Scott doesn’t appear to hold the sharp tone against him. “He needs to remember we’re all adults now. Like he keeps telling us, at this point, we all chose to be here,” he just says. Then he stops and a little chagrin comes into his face. “And…and, well, honestly, you’re going to go out anyway, and Allison’s pretty worked up too, and if you’re both going to be running around, I think I’d better come.”

Chris nods, and then picks up his gun and his knife. “True,” he says. “So what’s the lead?”


	7. Chapter 7

First stop after they leave the Stilinski house—after a short detour to get Chris some food, which would annoy Chris if it wasn’t his own daughter insisting on it—is to go to Chris’ house. Allison’s changed and cleaned herself up, too, and whenever Chris looks at her, she’s dry-eyed and has her jaw set, but her hands still shake a little when she touches him. He’s been closer to death, but it has been a while, he thinks soberly. They’ve all gotten used to having sort of a handle on the shit that’s being thrown at them.

On the way over, Allison fills him in. They might be waiting for intel on the two hunters, but they at least got wolfsbane samples off Chris’ and Stiles’ clothing, and the strain used is a very rare imported cultivar. Lydia’s attempting to track down the source via the hunter community, but Scott had a hunch and went to Alan Deaton, who thinks it came from a magic-worker and who thinks he knows who.

Chris isn’t that fond of druids. In his experience, they’re heavy on knowledge and light on action, and they’re far too prone to just sitting on the sidelines and waiting till there are far too many bodies before they do anything helpful. And even without that, Alan’s permanently on John Stilinski’s shit list for his role in Claudia’s death, and Chris is already on delicate enough ground with John.

So he’s not thrilled that Scott is _still_ going to the man, let alone with a problem like this—another thing about druids, considering how much information they withhold from people actually doing something about threats, they’re way too chatty with each other—but if Deaton’s got a name, Chris agrees that they can’t afford to not look into it. But he makes Scott go to his house first so he and Allison can load up on weapons, and specifically, magic nullifiers.

They have to cut through the plastic sealing to get in—Chris hasn’t been back since Jackson shooed him out, and this is the first time he’s seeing the job Scott and Jackson did on mocking up the place for that nonexistent fumigation. “Not a bad one,” he says under his breath, walking down the basement stairs.

“Scott says that Jackson knows all about that kind of thing,” Allison says, following him. “Wonder where he learned that. I don’t think it should come up much with home security, should it?”

Chris shrugs. He checks over his wards and other protective measures, and when he’s sure nothing has been tampered with, he and Allison open up the armory. Scott’s still outside, walking around the rest of the place just to make sure that Gerard’s men haven’t been by. If they had, Chris should’ve gotten an alarm, but he’s not taking anything for granted at this point.

“Dad?” Allison says. When he looks over, she’s twisting a crossbow bolt around in her hands, looking worried. “Dad, are you okay?”

“I’m f—” he starts, but her brows are already rising. He takes a breath, then pulls his hand off the bullet boxes and steps back. “I’m…I really want to kill my father.”

Allison looks relieved. Because he’s being honest with her, and she recognizes that, and most of the time Chris doesn’t bother thinking about how out of line with normal they are. He can’t help that; a lot of the time he doesn’t think he wants to. He just wants them to be happy and safe. But he’s still got Stiles’ bites aching on his neck and he misses his alpha like a phantom limb, and here his daughter is, bending a steel bolt with just her pinky finger because she nearly saw him suffocate in open air.

He just wishes he could get a goddamn warning for once, he thinks. Stupidly. He shakes it off and then turns back to the closet. “You all right?” he asks. Then, hearing her draw breath to answer, he clicks his tongue like he used to, pre-werewolf. “Allison.”

“Well, I really want to kill him too,” Allison says. She pauses, and then sighs and puts down the bolt. Then she drops to sit on a crate of bullet-casting tools, putting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “I want to be mad at Stiles, Dad. He _said_ we weren’t going to get special treatment, we were going to have to pull our weight like everybody else, and then here he’s ditching you because Gerard is a dick.”

“Allison,” Chris says automatically.

She makes a face at him. “I think Gerard is a legit exception to the bad language rule, even if I wasn’t almost legal drinking age.”

“But you’re not yet.” Chris takes out a few more boxes and drops them into the duffel at his feet, then closes the closet. “And anyway, he’s not even worth the words. You’re still the last in a long line of great leaders, Allison, and he’s just the last. You remember that.”

Allison tilts her head so it’s resting mostly in one hand, smiling at him. It’s bashful and a little disbelieving, and, in the great tradition of not-quite adult children everywhere, it comes with a little eye-roll. “Yeah, I know, Dad. But…yeah, you know, I see where Stiles is coming from too. I’m not saying he’s _right_ —I’m still with you all the way. But—God, when I saw you, I just…I just wanted to run home and lock up everything, and never go out again. And if I feel like that…”

Chris reaches for the duffel, then just sits back on his heels and stares at the bag for a few seconds. Every time somebody’s asked him whether he’s just laying extra trouble on Stiles because of his family, he’s said that he understands but he’s going to do his best to keep that down. And that he thinks he can make a case that he’s got more going for him than that, and that he at least wants Stiles to get a chance to hear him out, and then make the call.

Well, he did mean all of that, but now he can’t help thinking, maybe Stiles made that call.

“Dad. _Dad_.” Allison reaches out and waves her hand under Chris’ face, and then grabs his arm when he doesn’t look up. “Dad. Don’t—please don’t give up. I wasn’t saying that at all.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know you weren’t,” Chris says. He gives himself a shake, then zips up the bag and slings it over his shoulder. “But it’s on the back burner anyway, so no point in dwelling on it. Let’s just—let’s just take care of this latest damn problem.”

“Language,” Allison says, but she’s pretty half-hearted. She gets up, sees the bolt she’s bent up, and then frowns and starts straightening it as he locks up things. “It’s just—I guess I was just saying that I get how he feels, but Dad, it’s not like I actually want you to stay home. I don’t. I’m—I’m really proud that you aren’t, and that even with everything that’s happened, you’re still trying to go out and make it stop. Because it’s not going to stop if we just hide, and anyway, that’s letting Gerard win too.”

Chris stops halfway to the stairs, hearing her voice tremble, and he’s about to say something when Allison just barrels into him from the side, throwing her arms around him. She hugs him hard enough to make his ribs groan, but he just pushes down his wince. Pushes his head down too, just as she tucks her head into his shoulder. He used to do that when she was younger, and still shorter than him; now there’s the added dimension of scent and heartbeat, but the general point is the same. He’s trying to—he needs to make her feel better, make her feel safe.

“I know I might lose you,” Allison says, very softly, her voice a little broken. “But Dad, I just want you to know. If it’s going after Gerard, I’m—I promise I won’t be as silly as when we found out about Mom. I’m not going to blame you. So I don’t—I don’t want you to hold back because of me, and Stiles shouldn’t either. Not if he really gives a damn.”

“Language,” Chris says, even though he doesn’t mean it in the least. He…he chuckles a little, and she echoes him. He’s not making fun of her. It’s just he can’t really find anything serious to say that would do her justice, and so humor’s what he has left. “Yeah, I know, Allison. And I’m proud of you too.”

Allison makes a noise that’s half-amused, half-choked, pressing her face deep into his shoulder. Then she takes a breath. She pulls herself gingerly back, fussing with her hair, and takes another breath before she looks up at him. “I really hope Deaton has something,” she says. “If this ends up being another lesson for Scott, I’m going to be very frustrated.”

“Do they talk a lot?” Chris says, frowning.

She looks at him with a little chagrin, like he’s just caught her sneaking out of her room again, and then she shrugs helplessly as they go back up the stairs. “I don’t know about a lot,” she says. “I think they talk less than when Scott was just a trainer at the center, but…I don’t know, sometimes I think that it’s a good thing, that Scott is still the kind of person who tries to help people. Because maybe it’s just me, but sometimes I think Deaton calls him up because the guy’s scared.”

“Yeah, well, should’ve just left town, found another pack to bother,” Chris mutters. Frankly, he’s not sure why Deaton hasn’t. The man certainly won’t be taking up an official role with theirs any time soon, as long as Stiles is co-alpha, and druids are in short enough supply that Deaton shouldn’t have too much of a problem finding a new one, even after getting an alpha advisee killed.

“I think he really does feel bad about what happened with Claudia. He wants to help, he just doesn’t know how,” Allison says, shooting Chris a look. But then she shrugs again. “On the other hand, sometimes I think Scott needs to just get that he can’t make people forgive other people when they don’t want to. He really does think that Stiles’ dad might get over things some day.”

Chris snorts. John Stilinski is surprisingly flexible about many things, up to and including homicide, but when it comes to his wife’s death, the world is going to end before he forgives Deaton. And if Chris and his family hadn’t been literally locked in his father’s house for that, it’d probably be a different story for them, too. “That’s Scott for you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Allison says, with more than a trace of wistfulness. She pushes the hair back from her face, then pulls out a band and twists it all back into a ponytail. “Well, anyway, if this doesn’t pan out, and Stiles keeps freaking out, I think we should track him down and—”

“—give him a presentation?” Chris says. When she smiles uncertainly at him, Chris makes an effort to smile back, but he suspects it comes out pretty grim. “Allison, honestly, I think that can wait. I’m…I’m not giving up. But there is a time and a place.”

She’s quiet for a few minutes. They get out of the basement and reseal the house, and then go outside to wait for Scott, who’s wandered down the street to follow up on a scent trail he doesn’t recognize and who texted that he’d be back in a couple minutes. In the meantime, Chris loads up the car and then checks the rest of his messages: no major updates. And then Erica’s asking whether she should let Stiles know he’s out with Scott and Allison before or after Stiles gets back.

He warns her to not be dramatic, they don’t need more of that right now, and she sends back an incomprehensible mix of emoticons and lolspeak. After a couple seconds, he does manage to figure out that she’s referencing something from the plan, and he’s in the middle of sending a high-priority text to Lydia to put a lid on that when Allison clears her throat.

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Dad,” she says. She smiles at him, and it’s both admiring and worried, and God, he wishes he’d done better by her. And then the smile changes, getting a little more mischievous, and he seriously thinks about adding his daughter to his text to Lydia. “But okay, let’s go get my homicidal granddad first.”

“Thanks,” Chris says. He pauses. “I hope.”

“ _Daaaad_ ,” Allison groans, grinning, as Scott lopes up to them.

* * *

“I started hearing rumors a couple weeks ago about new strains of wolfsbane on the black market,” Deaton starts.

Scott looks attentive. Chris sighs, pulls out his gun and clicks out the clip, and then starts swapping his wolfsbane bullets for silver and angelica. “Can you get to the point? I’m still a little shaky from my poisoning,” he says, looking blandly at Deaton. “Can’t be up too long, need to get my rest in.”

Deaton blinks a few times. To his credit, he doesn’t look for any help from Scott, who’s frowning but who just looks his usual disappointed that everybody’s not getting along. “The sellers are a group called the Pallid Mask. They’re based out of Europe, but they’ve been looking to expand state-side and I suspect they’ve either contacted your father to act as their agent, or the other way around.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Chris says, grimacing. “So who do they have over here? They have to have somebody local, they can’t just be trusting Gerard that fast.”

“I’ve just got suspicions, nothing concrete,” Deaton warns. “But there’s a new cunning man in the area and he’s been throwing a lot of money around, even though he doesn’t seem to take on clients. He just spends.”

“What’s his name?” Scott says. “Do you have his address? We’ll check him out.”

For once, Deaton doesn’t beat around the bush, and just hands over a business card: _Hastur Inc._

Chris slides the clip back into his gun, holsters, and picks up the card before Scott can get it. “Thank you,” he says, because his mother, anyway, raised him to be polite.

He’s out the door before Scott catches up. Allison’s right there with Chris, but when she sees the look on Scott’s face, she mutters something about going to get the car started and hurries off.

“I’m just saying,” Scott starts.

“I said thank you,” Chris says. He texts Lydia the new information—he got some searches going when that company came up in the bank records, but he can’t check the results from here and she can. “Scott, listen, it’s great to get help but nobody likes it when strings come attached. And I’m sorry to say that Deaton’s help usually comes with them.”

“It does not,” Scott says sharply. “Just because he doesn’t tell us right away, well, he doesn’t really feel like he _can_ tell any of us.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s not like _we’ve_ tried to kill him, have we? Anyway, we’re wasting time. It’s an hour’s drive over there and we should get going while they’re still expecting us to hole up and heal up.”

“And I guess you’re going to argue with me if I point out that you still look a little pale,” Scott sighs. He glances back at Deaton’s clinic, then steps off the curb and comes up to Chris. He still acts a lot more like a beta than an alpha, to the point that Chris has to remind himself to be careful about things like looking taller than him. “Look, I know you want to show Stiles that you’re not weak, but I don’t think we should just rush over there. I wanted to get you guys over and have you hear Deaton out, but—”

“Scott,” Chris starts, and then he makes himself back off. Push the snarl out of his voice, even if Scott’s eyes are still sympathetic and human. “Scott. Look. It’s not about proving myself. It’s about getting my damn father off our backs. And we’re not rushing over. I have every intention of doing proper recon, assessing the situation and _then_ taking a damn shot if I think we have one.”

“It’s going to be day by the time we get there, do you really think we should be shooting people? What if this place is in the middle of a busy neighborhood?” Scott says, a little more sharply. He takes another step forward, his shoulders unconsciously spreading. “I said I’d go with you two but I didn’t mean we should actually—”

“—do something?” Chris snaps.

Scott’s eyes redden a little. Then he winces. He takes a deep breath, stands down, and then hunches over as he tugs his hair in frustration. “Look, I get it,” he says softly. “I do. I get how you’re feeling.”

“I don’t actually think you do,” Chris says.

“I get that he wouldn’t be so upset if he didn’t really like you,” Scott says. He does that in the same soft tone, with his hand half-raised towards Chris, but somehow it cuts deeper than sarcasm would have. “He does, you know. He told me, even before you decided to go after him.”

Chris blinks hard. He…honestly hadn’t thought of that. They’d—well, he and Allison, anyway, had assumed that he’d be starting with physical attraction and some friendly toleration, but that was it. And it’s not like Erica or Lydia, who both should know, had corrected that assumption.

“He likes you,” Scott says again. His brow crinkles with remembered discomfort. “He spent a whole hour once, explaining to me how getting a boner over you cleaning out your guns is totally logical because mating instincts evaluate skills. He had diagrams and references, and he started talking about finding clips on youtube to illustrate this in the manual, and…anyway. Stiles really likes you, and I just want to make sure you’re not doing this because you don’t think he cares.”

“I think the fact that he turned me down because he doesn’t want to see me killed makes that pretty clear,” Chris says.

Scott gives him a rare exasperated look. “Yeah, well, that’s come up before and people don’t always take it that way.”

Neither of them look towards the car, but Chris hears Allison suck her breath in through her teeth. Then she turns on the car radio.

“I’m not trying to get myself killed, Scott,” Chris says. He hesitates, then deliberately moves closer to the other man. It’s a little aggressive, even if he’s dipping his head while he does it, but he wants to make sure Scott hears everything he says. “You can’t just change how people feel about things. I know that. So I’m not going to do something stupid, like tell Stiles I’ll just keep throwing myself into suicide missions if he doesn’t return my feelings. But _I_ also happen to feel like really going after my father, and—and even if Stiles did return them, if he told me he’d only take me if I stopped going for Gerard, I wouldn’t. That son of a bitch is _my_ father.”

“I know,” Scott says.

Chris raises his brows. “That goes for you, too. You can pull your alpha shit if you want, make me back down this time, but I’m still going, sooner or later. You can’t make people give up something they really don’t want to give up.”

“I know,” Scott says again. He stands a little straighter, and his voice has some of that alpha deepness to it, but it’s just firm, not commanding. And it’s a little more wry than Chris would’ve expected. “I know, but—what I feel is, I hate seeing people I care about get hurt. So you can’t blame me if I try and talk people into trying something that’s not going to do that, can you?”

“No, but I’ll tell you, as somebody’s who’s tried to stay out of it before…sometimes you have to go head on. Talking only works when people are ready to listen,” Chris says.

He’s said as much to Scott before, on occasions with a _lot_ more dead bodies around, and it hasn’t seemed to have gotten through the kid’s head. Scott’s an idealist, through and through, and while it makes him a good balance for Stiles, it can be damn irritating when they need somebody to make a hard call.

So when Scott just smiles, looking amused of all things, Chris is a little thrown. He doesn’t think anything major has happened to Scott lately, but he has to admit the man’s been more—more adaptable about things.

“Tell me about it,” Scott says, pulling out his phone. He checks it, makes a face and then shoves it back into his pocket. “I’ve been pretending I can’t go check on you and make sure you haven’t run out for a good hour and a half now.”

Chris blinks. “Stiles?”

“I said I’d talk to him for you, and I’m still going to, but it’s a lot harder to do that when you’re unconscious,” Scott says. Then he raises his head and looks Chris right in the eye, and he’s not Scott when he speaks next, he’s alpha. “He worries about you like I worry about Allison. It’s not like I think she can’t fight—I know she can. But I think she picks fights she feels she owes us, not ones she can win, and I think you do that too. And Chris, I’m tired of picking my best friend up from funerals.”

“I know,” Chris says after a moment. He shifts back on his heels and lowers his head to run his hand over it, and it’s not just because the beta in him is telling him to stop pissing off the alpha. “I know. And I don’t want to be in that coffin either.”

“Okay.” Scott takes a deep breath, and then sets his shoulders and pulls a determined face. “Okay. Well, in that case, if you really think we’ll have the advantage if we go check them out now, then we’ll go.”

Chris takes a deep breath himself. He nods, and then he looks up at Scott. “I do think that.”

“All right, then,” Scott says, heading over to the car. “Let’s check them out.”

* * *

Hastur Inc.’s office is in a small complex on the outskirts of town, far enough from the main highway that Chris agrees with Scott about getting Lydia on back-up before they get out of the car. The other businesses in the complex all seem to be focused on shipping: import agents, customs clearance consultants, things like that.

“Pallid Mask used to sell on the were side,” Chris says as they arm up. “Supernatural drug dealers more than real magic. But a couple bad batches of their stuff poisoned some packs in Europe, and now no weres will take their product. They must’ve switched to selling to rogue hunters—no legit hunter would touch somebody who used to supply weres.”

“Makes sense. I thought we’d cut off everybody Gerard used to use,” Allison says, checking over her crossbow.

When Scott looks at her, Allison pulls an innocent face and then shows him a quiver full of tranq darts, and doesn’t look over when his eyes drop to the lethal mistletoe and carbon composite bolts strapped to her thigh.

“And rogue hunters would buy from a rogue alpha?” he says. He shakes his head but he doesn’t trot out his usual line about seeing if they can talk first.

“Honestly, I’m not sure we should even call these people hunters,” Chris says. “I don’t think they’re doing anything but taking bounties from people like Gerard. They’re in it for the money, and that makes them just mercs, in my book.”

“Okay, well, even if these people are running drugs, we’re still far enough over our boundary that we’re pushing it with the Reunion pack. I had Lydia send their alpha a heads-up, but we haven’t heard back yet and we only just got them to start talking to us,” Scott says. Then looks just a little amused when Chris and Allison stare at him. “I have to go to these pack talks, I do pay attention to them.”

“Nobody said you didn’t,” Chris mutters. And kicks himself a little for forgetting about that, considering he was the one to prep Stiles on that round. “Okay. So the plan.”

Scott lets him take over there, and Chris does appreciate that he’s got two alphas who don’t let their status get in the way of taking advantage of all the experience he’s got with this kind of thing. Anyway, it’s a pretty straightforward plan: one circle around the place to scout, and see if they can get anything remotely, and then they’ll try and go inside. 

They’ve got a couple options for the second half of the plan, especially since it’s a weekend and nobody should be in the building. But Scott picks up three heartbeats inside, which abruptly disappear—not stop, like they’ve died, so there’s privacy warding—and so Chris and Scott end up walking in the front door while Allison covers them from the car. It’s counterintuitive, but anybody sneaking around is going to be on alert the second somebody breaks in through the roof or the back door. If they go in the front, for all these people know, they might just be from the other businesses, coming in for a little extra work.

At least, that’s the idea. And it would work if they weren’t dealing with another werewolf. The moment they get inside, Gerard’s scent is all over the place. And it’s _fresh_.

Chris grabs Scott’s arm and drags him back out while he’s halfway through shift, that scent instantly turning his eyes red and dragging a growl from his throat that booms through the empty hallway. 

Gerard just—smells wrong. They’re still not really sure how he ended up an alpha werewolf, just from a bite, but they know he’s not the true alpha Scott is, and that whatever magic he used, it was dark and it left its mark in him. He smells worse than rot, worse than death, just wrong through and through, in a way that makes your skin crawl. If Chris hadn’t been through so many encounters with the man, he’d be shifting too.

As it is, Chris has to fight to keep his claws in, so he won’t get them tangled up in his gun as he yanks that out. He also gets his phone, and he’s dialing Lydia when a huge black form crashes through a side-door, charging across the parking lot.

Allison starts firing immediately, but Gerard’s fast enough in alpha form to dodge the bolts. Bullets would be too fast for that, but Chris and Scott are still in her line of fire, too, and she’s not quite as good with a rifle.

Chris lets go of Scott and they split up, Scott going up onto the roof, Chris racing for the set of dumpsters at the other end of the parking lot. They’re both trying to get clear of Allison’s sightlines, and also lure Gerard away from her.

At first it seems to work. Gerard goes for Chris and they run a couple circles around the dumpsters before Gerard just rams through them. He’s all twisted as an alpha too, with a muzzle more like a prehistoric monster than a wolf, and ugly, thick black veins that strain over his muscles. The spit dripping from his mouth is flecked with black.

He drives in low, trying to knock Chris off his feet, and Chris shoots him in the head. Not wolfsbane, Chris loaded for magic workers, but it slows Gerard enough for Chris to swerve and then run back across the parking lot. He’s not sure where Scott is but if Scott had been following Chris’ lead, he should’ve jumped Gerard by now. So Scott must’ve gotten busy somewhere else.

Scott’s not on the roof, anyway. Chris goes for that, but just as he’s about to leap for it, Gerard finds an extra boost somewhere and jumps _over_ him, claws raking down so that Chris feels them take off the tips of his hair. Then Gerard twists on the way down, landing so that he’s on all fours and facing Chris.

Allison suddenly appears on the edge of the roof, her horrified face rising over Gerard’s head. Chris swears and backs up. Has to drop his phone so he can get at his spare bullets, try and swap them for the wolfsbane ones.

Gerard can see what he’s doing and charges Chris, but Chris manages to throw the non-wolfsbane ones out as he dives behind a car, distracting Gerard into swiping them away. He jams the wolfsbane bullets in, then whips around and—Gerard’s too close, even if Chris nails him, momentum will smash the alpha into Chris and maim him, at the very least.

Chris takes a step sideways, then turns around and throws himself into the front doors of the building. They’re glass, and it hurts like hell going through them, but it’s better than getting crushed by the car Gerard’s just piledrived into the spot where Chris had been. Then Gerard climbs atop the crumpled car, snarling and pawing his foreleg, his claws gouging strips out of the metal. He lines himself up with Chris for a straight shot down the hallway, and then his head snaps up, just as a shifted Allison lands on his back.

She lasts all of two seconds before Gerard sends her flying across the lot, landing in a _crunch_ of broken bones, but it’s long enough for Chris to get up off his ass and swing his gun around. He fires at Gerard.

Misses—a spray of blood clips off Gerard’s shoulder, but it’s just a graze. Chris fires again, trying to at least get a bullet stuck in him, get some wolfsbane working through his system, but Gerard breaks off a piece of the car and launches it at Chris like a spear.

Chris ducks it, then jumps out and jumps onto Gerard, before he can go after Allison. He gets two claws deep between one of Gerard’s ribs, and he’s got the end of his gun wedged behind Gerard’s ear when Gerard abruptly—rolls off the car and onto the ground, with Chris mostly under him.

The bullet creases Gerard’s head but again, it’s a miss. And the impact both jars the gun out of Chris’ hand and breaks something in his leg. It’s not—it’s not Gerard sticking a claw in him, and with the weird logic of werewolf healing, that means Chris will heal right away. Or would, if Gerard would just get off his leg.

But Gerard doesn’t. The alpha’s on his back and Chris is tearing at him with claws and teeth, is punching him, and Gerard’s skin is ripping and resealing right before Chris’ eyes, but Gerard doesn’t get off him. Rocks in place, actually, the massive weight of him pushing down on Chris’ leg so Chris howls in pain, feeling the healing bones being forced apart. Gerard can’t reach around and kill him, but right now, he’s taking Chris out of the fight just as efficiently.

Desperate, Chris wrenches his arm around and then stabs his claws into the back of Gerard’s neck. He’s not sure if he can get to the spine, the muscles are so thick—

—his mother smiling and coming towards him with hair he just knows from faded photos, Kate’s tearstained face, Allison’s blood on werewolf claws and it makes him happy to see that why they should skip a full-grown man for a girl just for tradition, men he doesn’t know but he knows they’re Pallid Mask and he’s disgusted by their lowball offer but he has no choice, his son with that _pathetic_ little true alpha who doesn’t even appreciate gifts others have had to kill for and it’s Chris’ own face lying there white and bloody and open-eyed and dead—

—he’s staring at his own claws, covered in blood and coarse, revoltingly oily black fur. Staring and panting, his leg a mass of burning pain as the ends of his broken bones try to work through crushed flesh to find each other, and across the parking lot, a full-shift Scott is chasing Gerard down the road.

“Dad?” Allison half-screams. “Dad?”

“Here, here.” Chris shakes his head. He’s still got Gerard in his mind—he’s got his claws half-raised to his temple before he catches himself, thinking fuzzily about lobotomies and bleach and shit that he doesn’t need in there any more than he does his father’s bullshit about power. “Allison? What’s broken?”

She’s on her feet, at least, but she’s cradling one of her arms. “I can’t set my shoulder,” she says, hurrying over to him. She’s a little teary-eyed but she moves briskly as she feels him over, grimaces at his leg, and then pulls her phone out. “Scott went inside. He said he could hear somebody messing with a timer.”

“Did he get it?” Chris snaps.

“Yeah. Yeah, and he got them, they’re knocked out,” Allison says. She’s frowning at her phone. “Lydia says get out of the crime scene but stay put.”

Just then Scott comes jogging back up the road. He’s in partial shift, but he drops that as soon as he reaches the parking lot. His scent alone tells Chris that Gerard got away, thick with disappointment and frustration.

“That overpass, he jumped it and landed in the river,” Scott says. He shakes off some bloody clumps of fur from his claws, then comes over and starts feeling over Chris’ leg. “Sorry, I just figured I’d better get the bombs first, and you could lead him around for a couple minutes.”

“No, was the right call,” Chris grunts. With Scott’s help, he manages to sit up. His leg still hurts like a bitch, and they’ll probably have to rebreak it to get the alignment right, but he thinks he can walk on it. “The two inside—”

“They’re out,” Scott says, while Allison shows him Lydia’s message. “I’ll go move them to another office. Can you two—”

“Need to move the car, and then we’ll—” Chris starts, just before a sudden, sickening wave of dizziness passes over him. Images of himself and Kate flicker past his eyes, thin and translucent, and he hears somebody talking about giving the alpha what he wants.

When he’s steady again, Scott has him draped over one shoulder and is walking down the hall of the building. “Allison’s got the car,” he says. “And before you say it, she says she can drive with one hand. She’s just going down the road.”

“Fine,” Chris mutters. It’s not, but he knows when he’d be just plain stupid to object.

“Were you—were you in his head?” Scott asks, sounding concerned. He breaks into another office with his free hand, then flips on the lights. “Allison said she thought she saw you get your claws in his neck.”

“Yeah.” Chris manages to pull himself together enough to get his hands down, and help Scott lay him onto a couch. “Yeah, I—I saw some stuff, we should—”

“Lydia’s on her way, just wait for her.” Scott straightens up and looks Chris over. Takes a step back towards the door, then hesitates. “I need to go…if I go, are you going to be all right?”

Chris sighs. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the concern, but if he’d been fucked up that badly, he’s pretty sure Scott wouldn’t be bothering with asking. “I didn’t see anything in there that I didn’t already know about, Scott. Just get started on the cleaning.”

Scott lingers another second, frowning, and then he goes. He’s moving around in the other office, securing the Hastur Inc. people, and Chris thinks that at least they’ll have cut off Gerard’s new income source.

Chris stares at the wall, then lets his head thump back. “ _Fuck_ ,” he snarls. Because yeah, that’s not good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pallid Mask is a reference to the _King in Yellow_ mythos.
> 
> “Cunning” (as in cunning folk) is a British folk reference to professional magic practitioners.


	8. Chapter 8

“Well, you’re having a shitty weekend,” John says, sliding in the door with two cups of coffee.

They’ve relocated to a car repair shop a mile down the road, which affiliates of the Reunion pack run and which has been temporarily shut down so the two packs can regroup and figure out how to play Gerard’s attack. Chris just got his leg reset and he’s half-lying on a table in a back office, waiting for the inflammation to go down. The office has a big glass window and he can see Stiles talking with the Reunion alpha and a frustrated-looking man wearing a fire department t-shirt. Just a little past them, Lydia and Jackson are conferring with more Reunion pack members over what Chris thinks might be a utilities map.

“We going with gas leak?” Chris says. Then he frowns, because John is holding out one of the coffees to him.

John rolls his eyes. “I already got one detoxing werewolf in my basement, I’m not looking to add another one, Chris. Just take the damn coffee.”

Chris takes the coffee. It’s…surprisingly good. He frowns again and rotates the cup, and the address under the logo is for a place in town. “Boyd’s still not out of it?”

“No, he is, but he’s resting up now. Almost cracked my foundation, so he could use it.” John shifts some rolls of wires and a hubcap off the office chair, then sits down. Grunts, rubs at his knee and then drinks a good slug of coffee himself. “Yeah, gas leak. So Gerard got away again.”

“Yeah,” Chris mutters. “Fuck.”

John doesn’t exactly disagree, but since he’s not yelling at Chris or into a phone at some cop friend of his, he’s having a pretty subdued reaction to everything. He drinks more coffee, watching through the window as Stiles and the Reunion alpha shake hands. The Reunion alpha then heads out, calling her pack to her, and Stiles stands back and squeezes his hands against either side of his head, looking relieved and frustrated at the same time.

“That should be okay. Marie’s _pissed_ that her people missed a Pallid Mask set-up right under their noses, let alone Gerard Argent,” John says. He wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand, then tosses his empty cup into a trashcan. Swivels his chair around to face Chris. “So you want to tell me why you’re giving my son fits now?”

“Scott got a lead from Deaton. I know, I know, but Hastur Inc. popped up in the finance records we’ve been combing through too, so I thought we’d better just take a look,” Chris says. “I wasn’t expecting Gerard to actually be—”

John screws up his face and then presses his fingertips into the deepest wrinkles, which are right between his eyebrows. “Argent, for God’s sake, that’s not what I—I mean why the _hell_ did Stiles nearly plow my car into the supermarket when he heard about this?”

“The supermarket?” Chris says. “What were you doing there?”

“Boyd also wrecked the basement fridge and I needed milk.” Then John removes his hand and looks at Chris. “Well?”

“Well, I got around to telling him I loved him, and he told me it wasn’t going to happen,” Chris says after a long moment. He glances into his coffee, then sighs and slowly pulls his legs around to hang off the table. The bone’s knitted and the muscles are working again, but he’s still a little lightheaded and achy. Not to the point of getting flashes of his father’s memories, thank God, but even if he was going to be that sort of jackass, he’s not capable of running off right now. “And it’s not like we can afford for me to just sit and cry myself to sleep over it, so I went out and did something productive.”

John keeps looking at him. Then, very slowly, John leans back in the seat. And keeps leaning back, till he’s dropped his head over the top and is giving the ceiling a weary, pained face. 

“Sometimes I think it’s a good thing there are werewolves, otherwise I’d get in a lot of trouble banging sense into people,” he mutters. He stares at the ceiling a little longer, then pulls himself forward. Glances at Chris, then gets up. “I’m going to get my son, and then you’re going to sit his ass down and talk to him like the guy you’re in love with, and not like your alpha—”

“I’m trying to respect both parts, John,” Chris says sharply. Something trickles down his hand and he realizes he’s clawed his cup. He starts to look down, then stops himself and just works on not heaving too loud of an exasperated sigh at the other man. “I know—I know it hasn’t been easy for him. It’s not easy. And it’s my family’s fault, most of that, and—”

“And I’m actually not yelling at you, though you keep going and I might find a way to get that in too,” John says, tone oddly mild. He pushes the chair behind him and takes a step towards the door, then half-turns back to Chris. “Yeah, it’s been tough. But Claudia and I didn’t raise our kid to be a omega, and we sure as hell didn’t raise him to hide from his own pack. So shut up and just wait, would you?”

John takes the second step towards the door. He puts his hand on the knob and pulls the door open, pauses, and then shuts it. Looks at Chris over his shoulder.

“I’m shutting up,” Chris says, blinking. He keeps a straight face through John’s slightly suspicious glare, and then, when the man’s turning back, clears his throat. “John. Thank—thank you.”

“Well, it’s Stiles, if he’s in, he’s in, and it’s just worse if he tries to stay out of it. God knows I learned my lesson about that,” John mutters. He pauses again, then signs and rubs at the side of his face. He and Chris aren’t that far apart, age-wise, but he’s got a heavy sprinkling of grey in his hair that Chris hasn’t noticed before, and there’s a little bit of an ashy tone to his skin that Chris doesn’t like. “I’ll be honest, I’m still not big on you, but he wants you. I haven’t been able to give him much, but I can still do a pep talk or two.”

“You’ve kept him on track without another alpha moving in for years,” Chris says. While John’s snorting off the compliment, Chris takes a discreet sniff and he doesn’t smell any disease. Maybe it’s just the terrible fluorescents in here. “You all right? You look tired.”

John shrugs. “Because I _am_ tired, of all this—not just your son of a bitch father, you know. I think…Stiles is finally getting off on his own, and I think I’m just remembering I’m human. It’s nothing some R and R can’t cure, so don’t go worrying him.”

“I do try not to,” Chris says dryly. He and John share a look, and then Chris slowly edges himself off the table. Finally gets that drippy coffee cup away from himself, dropping it in the trashcan. “Yeah, well, I know how you’re probably going to take this, but—”

“You’re a werewolf and you’re barely keeping up with your own kid, Chris,” John says, with a small, not entirely sarcastic smile. “And you’re already trying to add mine, so maybe just deal with what’s already on your plate. I’m fine. It’s just…well, it’s a good thing he _is_ standing on his own, because hell if I know how much longer I was gonna be able to keep it up.”

And with that, John opens the door and steps out. Chris watches him cross the room, stance purposeful, waving off an approaching Erica when she rounds the corner and aims herself at Stiles. Erica backs up, frowning, and then sees Chris through the window. She stops frowning, then slaps a hand over her mouth just as Chris starts to wince. Instead of the expected cackle, Erica just gives him a thumbs-up and then quickly backs off.

Takes Allison, who’s coming up from behind with her phone in hand, with her. Chris twitches forward, because Allison’s still rubbing at her reset shoulder, but Allison sees him, immediately shakes her head and then gestures that she’s going to be outside with…Scott. Chris opens his mouth anyway, then rolls his eyes at himself and pulls out his phone. Which is already filling up with good luck texts.

“Pack game back on?” Stiles says, stepping into the room.

“It wasn’t really a game,” Chris says, looking up. He has to suppress a whimper as Stiles’ scent reaches him, comforting and steadying when he’s still a little bit shaky from his accidental trip into Gerard’s head. “It was—it wasn’t a game.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Stiles says. He’s sharp, irritated at something, and then he pulls himself up. Rubs his hands over his face, then drops them and looks at Chris and he looks so done and so uncertain at the same time that Chris just wants to wrap around him, let his alpha lean on him. “I just…whatever. So. Hear you got a direct line on Gerard.”

The memory, which Chris quickly and grimly suppresses, makes him curl up a clawed fist to press against the table-top. “For the record, I was just trying to cut his spinal cord. But yeah. So Pallid Mask’s how he was getting his money. He was funneling in their drugs, marketing them to rogue hunters, and they were paying him for his old network contacts.”

“Guess we need to step up our game of killing off his friends,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Honestly, I still can’t believe he _has_ those.”

“He managed to stick it out a really long time in hunter terms. He’s been around long enough for people to get his name, that’s all,” Chris says. Then he grimaces, because that’s a great way to change the subject. “Listen, I wasn’t expecting him to actually be there in person, but I know I should’ve—”

Stiles sighs again, putting his hand to his forehead. “You had Scott with you, you called Lydia, you pretty much did what you usually do, and Gerard’s worse than the fucking Spanish Inquisition anyway.”

“Because…we always expect him but he’s still bad?” Chris tries after a second.

He manages to earn a fleeting smile from Stiles, and then an explosive exhale, accompanied with a two-handed windmilling flap. “Goddamn it, Chris,” Stiles snaps. “You even get my obscure references!”

“Monty Python’s only obscure to your generation,” Chris says. He watches a second smile almost creep onto Stiles’ face, then get swallowed up by Stiles’ increasing agitation. “Stiles—”

“Oh, fuck it,” Stiles says, and then he’s got Chris bundled up against him, his hands fisted in Chris’ shirt, his face pressed into Chris’ neck.

Chris’ knees go. His claws stab into the table, but it’s metal and he just dents it and his claw tips. He’s a little more successful with his other hand, getting it to Stiles’ shoulder, and that’s just about all he has strength for before he collapses against the other man, whining quietly, listening to his alpha’s heartbeat. His nose runs up against Stiles’ shirt-collar and he lets his weight drag it under the cloth, onto bare skin. And keeps it there, even when Stiles has pulled him back up, pressing him up against the table.

“I want—I want this to be easy. Easier for you,” Chris mumbles, rubbing his cheek against Stiles. “’m sorry it isn’t.”

“Shut up and stop apologizing,” Stiles mumbles back. He’s pulling up Chris’ shirt, and a second before his hands land on the skin of Chris’ waist, Chris realizes that’s on purpose.

Stiles scents him up and down his neck, nudging his head over to lie on Stiles’ shoulder, and then starts nipping lightly at it. He’s still got a little bit of marking from the last round, skin’s all healed but it’s a little sensitive and Chris whines even more lowly in his throat, then arches as Stiles seals his mouth over the spot and sucks it slowly but firmly. Gets his hand off the table and brings it up behind Stiles, and hooks his fingers into the back of Stiles’ shirt. He maybe ends up with some claw out too, but not deep enough to scratch skin, and when he tries to adjust, Stiles slides flat palms across his belly, sending a fresh wave of knee-weakening heat through him.

Then those hands separate, and one goes around to press against Chris’ back while the other drops across Chris’ nape, tilting his head as Stiles shifts his mouth, starts nursing a new spot. Chris moans, kneading at his alpha, and Stiles answers him with a rough, huffing noise that instinctively pushes Chris up against him. Their knees slide past each other, and then Stiles twists himself, angling a thigh along Chris’ groin and fuck, _fuck_ , but suddenly it’s gone from hazy, lust-laced comfort to very real, very present and very goddamn intense arousal.

Chris finds himself hitching his ass up, trying to get it past the table’s edge, trying to get himself up so that he can lie back and properly present himself, but Stiles is holding him too tightly. He makes a frustrated noise and Stiles pulls him hard by the back of the neck, purring, teeth lightly raking over Chris’ throat and Chris whimpers, spreads his knees and then bows his back, trying to follow the hand that’s stroking up and down his spine.

Stiles purrs louder, and then that turns into a hard, demanding growl as he keeps pulling Chris forward. His fingers drop to dig into Chris’ hip, catching Chris just as he tries to grind down on his alpha’s thigh, and then he yanks Chris off him. Spins Chris, slams him belly-down over the table and is right back on top, pushing himself down so that Chris doesn’t even feel the absence. His mouth comes down on Chris’ shoulder, half on clothes, half on skin, teeth sinking in regardless, and Chris starts to shiver. Hikes his ass up, feeling Stiles’ hands shape around it.

“—care what the hell you thought, he’s my dad and I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Allison shouts.

Chris jerks. He’s hanging in between distant alarm and the very immediate need to have his alpha stay on him, keep him and—Allison’s voice rises again, over a clatter Chris barely recognizes as the office door bouncing against the wall.

“So, sorry, _really_ , really sorry, guys, but Scott’s kind of gone and fucked us over, and Allison’s going at him for it,” Erica says. “Man. I’m actually relieved you’re still dressed.”

John’s voice is in the mix too, angry in a way Chris hasn’t heard in a long time. Stiles swears, heaving himself up but keeping his hands on Chris, keeping their legs pressed together, and then his heartbeat slows as he focuses. “What?” he says.

His voice is still low and rough, still full of alpha force and Chris flattens himself, a whine rising in his throat. When Erica answers, she’s a lot less harried and a lot more crisp. “Scott says Deaton knew Gerard back in town,” she says. “And neither of them told us.”

And that’s about as good a bucket of cold water as Chris is ever going to get. Not that he wanted it, a small, selfish part of him thinks, but he’s squirming out from Stiles even before the other man straightens up. He immediately misses his alpha’s heat, the warm weight over his back, but he does his best to shove that off, to not sway after Stiles.

“What,” he and Stiles say.

Erica looks strangely somber. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s pretty bad. You better come—”

“Oh, I am there and then some,” Stiles snarls, stalking out.

She swivels out of his way, then hangs back, absently pulling at her curls, till Chris gets level with her, and then she falls in step beside him. “Sorry,” she mutters.

“Not your fault this time,” Chris mutters back. “Seriously?”

“I know, this pack’s timing, right?” Erica sighs. “I knew we should’ve just sent Scott for coffee and then told him that the Hastur guys accidentally smashed their heads in on the floor. Respect the alpha and all that, but man, is he inconvenient.”

“I don’t think that’s the word I’d use,” Chris says, and then he wades in there.

* * *

The two Hastur Inc. people are pretty easy to deal with. They were illegally operating in Reunion pack territory, so a couple Reunion members come back and take them away, promising that Stiles and the rest won’t have to worry about any more Hastur activity in the area. That in turn should make it way too costly for the Pallid Mask to send any more agents, or to keep working with Gerard; some people might keep trying just out of sheer pride, but everything Chris has heard about the group points to them just caring about their balance sheet. There are easier ways for them to make money, with bigger profit margins, than bankrolling a war with two packs.

Just in case, Chris is going to send a heads-up to the handful of hunters who’ll still talk to him, and hopefully get the news about Pallid Mask spread that way. He’s sure John and Lydia will do the same with the werewolf community, and they’ll get Gerard’s income stream cut off again.

In the meantime, the son of a bitch is still an alpha werewolf, and he can still cause plenty of trouble without money. The Reunion alpha has people scouring his territory for any trail, but Chris isn’t counting on them finding anything. If Gerard really has been this close the entire time, he’ll have planned a couple exit routes, and now it’s too late to do anything about them, thanks to the lack of information. Scott.

“We weren’t trying to get anybody hurt!” Scott says, smacking the table.

They’re back at the Stilinski house, in the kitchen. It’s early Sunday morning, everyone’s tired and angry, and Scott still hasn’t wised up.

“Yeah, and how did you think you were going to do that?” Allison snarls. She calmed down—at least Chris thought she had—during the drive over, but now she’s pacing back and forth on the other side of the table, eyes glowing, clipping her words against her extended fangs. “If Deaton even _thought_ Gerard was nearby, he should’ve told us. _You_ should’ve told us.”

“Look, we didn’t know for sure. All he knew was a couple drunken—” Scott starts.

“You still should have _told_ us!” Allison says. “You should have—I can’t even understand why you wouldn’t, Scott, he’s been trying to kill us for years, he almost got Dad _again_ , and you said! You said you’d keep him away! You said you’d help us!”

Chris is angry at Scott, to put it charitably, but he gets up from his chair and pulls Allison back as she starts to scrape her claws over the table. He knows her, and her temper, and she needs to take a breath before she gets so far that she starts doing stupid things.

“Dad—don’t—he just—” Allison growls, twisting at her arm.

“I know,” Chris says. He keeps his head low and his voice even, and puts his other hand on her shoulder. He doesn’t look at Scott as he starts squeezing that hand, setting up a firm, slow rhythm that hopefully her hammering heartbeat will follow. “I know. I know.”

Allison twists again, then jerks her head around. Her lips are pulled back in a snarl and Chris makes himself not respond in kind. She falters a little, but then whips around again to glower at her alpha. “You said you’d keep us _safe_ , and we both could’ve died.”

“That’s what I was worried about!” Scott says. He leans forward with one hand on the table, the other waving blindly at the preserve outside the windows. He smells sincere. Also smells stressed, not that Chris particularly cares right now. “Listen, if what Deaton heard was right, Gerard wasn’t right here. He wasn’t in our territory, and we can’t just go rushing over, okay, we’ve worked so hard to build up alliances and I’m sorry, Allison, but I know the first thing you’d want to do is go after him. We can’t just do that now, we’re not kids anymore.”

“It’s a good point,” John finally chimes in. He’d gotten in a fair amount of yelling back at the garage, but had clammed up as soon as the Reunion people came back. And since they’d returned to the house, he’d just taken up a position in the corner, tight-lipped with his arms folded. “But that still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell Stiles.”

Stiles has been dangerously quiet. When Allison had screamed out the details—Scott slipped up while interrogating the Hastur people about Gerard’s presence—he’d just looked at his fellow alpha. Scott had flinched and Stiles’ eyes had reddened. They’re still a little red, like somebody’s put a pane of tinted glass over them, but other than that he’s been very calm and reasonable. Thanking the Reunion people, chivvying everybody home, making sure they all checked what they needed to.

He’s still quiet. Doesn’t say a word as Scott glances at him; Scott’s shoulders slump and they stay down till Scott looks back at John. Then they go up a hair, but Scott’s still cringing like somebody’s got a hand raised to him.

Nobody does, but that’s because they’ve banished everyone besides Lydia to eavesdrop from the basement. As is, Chris thinks from the muffled noises that somebody’s been sitting on Erica for the last ten minutes.

“I was dealing with it,” Scott says after a long pause. He’s wincing even as he speaks. “I should have told you. I know. But I thought—I was already talking with Marie, they were looking into it. If it panned out, I was going to bring it to everyone, but I didn’t want people to panic.”

“Scott, we’ve tangled with Gerard how many times now?” John says, his voice rising. “Has it looked like we panic when he shows up?”

“We have a _protocol_ for the sheriff’s office to follow if he’s spotted in Beacon Hills,” Lydia says contemptuously.

“It’s just it was really calm, all right? Everybody was relaxing, and we needed that. Don’t tell me we didn’t, we did. We can’t just spend all our time going after him, and Marie wanted to know whether he was around just as much as we do, she wasn’t going to lie if she _did_ find something,” Scott says, leaning over the table again. The earnestness is starting to outdo the regret. “And I’m an alpha too, all right? I know you think I don’t take it seriously, but I do.”

Allison’s slumped back into Chris’ arms, but she stiffens up at that. “By putting your pack in danger? Is this what you meant when you said you couldn’t train and date me? It’s just a lot easier to pretend you’re doing it for my own good when I’m just your beta—”

“ _No_ ,” Scott says. He shakes his head, looking horrified. Starts to raise a hand towards her, but when she draws back into Chris, he winces and puts it down. Then abruptly turns from her. “No. No, that’s not—Stiles. Stiles, I wasn’t trying to hurt us. I was just trying to make sure before—I was trying to be an alpha about it. I was going to get it all checked out, and not just run off, and get—”

“Well, that worked well,” Stiles mutters, picking at his nails. One of them catches his attention and he pops out a claw, then peels off the frayed sheath. “I’m guessing Marie was turning up nothing about Gerard, so you figured you’d just bring the Hastur part to us?”

Scott looks so pathetic that it’s clear that’s the right answer.

“It was still stupid,” John says. “Marie’s only been in the region for a few years, you know that. She doesn’t know Gerard like we do.”

“Yeah, so I bet you went and did some checking too.” Stiles gets up, glancing at his dad; John seems about to say something and then stops himself. After another second, Stiles sighs and walks up to Scott. He doesn’t touch the other man but his stance is loose and neutral. “Which is such a fucking beta move, Scotty. What the hell.”

Scott frowns. “I wasn’t—I was trying to figure it out before any of us got hurt.”

“I know, but you’re still—God, sometimes I just want to punch in your face,” Stiles says, exhaling roughly. He reaches up and tugs at his hair, then pushes the heel of his hand against his temple. “You’re an idiot. You know that? You’re an idiot. You’re the biggest idiot I have ever seen, and wow, seriously, if you’re the best I can do with a beta, I am the _shittiest_ alpha ever.”

Chris is straightening up, an objection half out of his mouth, when John catches his eye and then gives him a firm head-shake. John…seems more than a little confused too, but he moves his gaze back to Stiles, so Chris reluctantly does likewise.

“What?” Scott says.

“I taught you. I taught you!” Stiles throws his hands up, then brings them down on Scott’s shoulders and drags the other man forward. Then he starts shaking Scott, who’s too wide-eyed to resist. “What did I tell you? I told you, you dumbass, it’s collective intelligence, that’s where it’s at. We’re werewolves, we’re group hunters, we _tell_ each other stuff not because it’s the right thing to do but because otherwise we’re just a bunch of violent, trigger-happy psychos who just happen to run around together. And that’s the whole _point_ of alphas, Scott, we’re the ones who keep the betas from being all stupid and self-sacrificing and just, God, don’t be so _stupid_. Please.”

And then he yanks Scott into a hard hug. His arms close across Scott’s back so tightly that Chris almost thinks he can pick out a rib shifting out of place. But Scott’s sagging into it, his whole body dropping with relief. It’s another second before he brings his arms up and wraps them around Stiles, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck like a beta.

“You’re my first,” Stiles says, as he’s pressing his cheek into the side of Scott’s head. So low that if he wasn’t a werewolf, Chris wouldn’t have been able to pick it out. “You were my best friend anyway, and you still are, Scotty. You can’t just—do that kind of shit. You’re not on your own, I told you you’d always be pack.”

“I know,” Scott’s saying, hiccupping a little. “I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I just didn’t want you to have to deal with this stuff again—”

“I’ll deal with it.” Stiles snorts, and it’s just as ragged as Scott’s voice. “I’ll deal with it, it’s my _job_ , Jesus. You gotta help me, Scott, you have to stay, you can’t leave me. We’re in this together. Okay?”

Scott nods, and now he’s the one hugging the hardest. Chris—isn’t so vengeful that he can’t recognize it’s better to have everybody on the same page, than have the pack torn between two alphas. And looking at Scott, at how he’s still keeping his head lower than Stiles’, at how his hands are shaking on Stiles’ arms, Chris remembers that Scott hasn’t been an alpha much longer than Chris and Allison have been werewolves, and had never expected to be one in the first place. And he’s not even legally able to drink yet on top of that. Chris is a lot older, and was trained to lead people and look after them, and he’d be a hypocrite if he pretended he hasn’t made Scott’s mistake before.

But he’s still plenty mad at the kid.

So is Allison. She’s been silent this whole time, but when Scott and Stiles finally separate, Scott happens to glance her way and she suddenly jerks free of Chris. Shoots him an apologetic look, but her arms are already coming up to wrap around herself. She takes a step away and when he just nods his understanding, she braces herself and turns to face Scott.

“He might be fine with it, but I’m not,” she says, chin up, eyes hard. “I don’t know if you get this, _alpha_ , but I want to _keep_ the parent I’ve got left.”

Even mad as he is, Chris winces. “Alli—”

She’s already storming off. Stricken and white-faced, Scott takes one step after her and then has both Stilinskis barring his way: Stiles grabbing him by the arm, John stepping in front of him.

“Let her cool off. When she’s mad she goes for the throat first, thinks later, you know that,” John says, and then he looks at Chris.

“I’ll talk to her. That was—she shouldn’t have said that. She didn’t mean it,” Chris says tightly. He’d liked Scott’s mother too, and Melissa being on call the night a hunter decided to pull a Trojan Horse and then rampage through the ER wasn’t Scott’s fault.

Scott nods. He looks after Allison as she bangs out the front door—Jackson, muttering complaints under his breath the whole way, bolts from the basement and gets after her just before the door swings shut—and then he stands back and drags his hands over his face. “I know. And I can see why she’s so mad.”

“Yeah. And don’t think I’m not still mad either,” Stiles says. He gives Scott a pat on the shoulder, but it’s a little rough for a softening gesture. Still, the pair of them almost look relaxed like that, Stiles glowering, Scott wincing. “Just because I get it doesn’t mean I’m gonna put up with it. You’re an alpha, Scott. You’re a true alpha, to boot. So when your betas are in your face, you can straighten them out yourself.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Yeah, fair.”

“Also, you’re such big buddies with Marie, you can handle all the Reunion pack stuff with Dad from now on,” Stiles adds. He runs his hand over his face, hiding a yawn, and then flaps it at the rest of them. “Okay. Well, before I go fall on my face into the nearest horizontal surface, anything else?”

“No,” Lydia says. She flicks her eyes between John and Chris, daring them to raise any of the hundred balls that actually are in the air, and then, when they sensibly don’t, she cocks her head and gives Stiles a pursed little smile. “So long as nobody else decides to go off on their own little heroic quest, I think we can safely go to bed. I know I’m three hours behind on my beauty sleep.”

“Don’t want your face to start falling off or anything, God knows what’s under it,” Erica mutters, slipping out of the basement. She and Lydia exchange smiles that aren’t anything about smiling, and then she crosses the kitchen for the fridge. “Anybody else feel like a munchie before they hit the hay?”

John goes over to her, warning her off his pizza pockets. Stiles makes a little bit of a face—he’s on and off about trying to get John to eat better, and apparently he’s in an on period—but then just shakes his head. He takes a step away from Scott and towards Chris, who blinks in surprise.

“I can hear Jackson and Allison coming back,” Stiles says. “Just so you know—”

“Don’t say it, I know, too soon,” Scott says, looking from him to Chris, who’d been about to second that. He sighs, looking down at his feet, and then turns around. “I’ll go…clean out the cars, or something. Anyway, I’ll be in the garage. Can somebody come let me know when she’s asleep?”

“Yeah, Isaac or I’ll get you,” Erica says, head stuck in the fridge as she and John debate chip dips. “Though I know your channel is all Allison, all the time, Scott, but you wanna show Chris a little love?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s waiting on me to take my gun off first,” Chris says.

“If you want to do it now, I’m happy to,” Scott immediately offers. And he means it. But he’s also twitchy enough to confirm that Chris was right, and Scott wasn’t forgetting about him so much as hoping Chris wouldn’t push for it.

Chris smiles at Scott. Keeps the fangs back but puts plenty of teeth in it otherwise, and never mind that the other man’s an alpha. “No, that’s all right. I can wait my turn.”

“No homicide in Dad’s house, remember?” Stiles says, looking between them. But he steps up by Chris, and then he slings his arm over Chris’ neck.

“No gunshots either, I’m low on drywall fill,” John calls over his shoulder.

Stiles laughs, but he’s edging Chris off towards the stairs. He stops to let Boyd and Isaac pass him—apparently everybody but Chris is hungry—and then keeps hustling them along. They get to the stairs and then the front door opens and a stony-faced Allison comes in, followed by a still-bitching Jackson. When she sees them, she pauses, blinks, and then cracks a small smile.

“Good, somebody’s gotta make sure you stay in,” she says to Chris.

“What about you?” Chris says.

“I got it, Daddy!” Erica yells. “Trust me, ain’t no sneaking out that I can’t wet-blanket.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s gonna take them five minutes to destroy my dad’s fridge, and then it’s pack cuddles anyway,” he says. “Come on, you might as well make sure you get first pick of spots.”

Well, Chris isn’t about to turn that offer down, even if he’s currently feeling more like just dropping in a corner somewhere and hoping everybody overlooks him. Honestly, that alone is a pretty strong sign that he needs to just stop and do what Stiles tells him, till his head gets sorted out. He’s still got shit in there besides how incredibly done with Deaton he is, and how badly he wants to boot Scott upside the head.

Some of that must come through, because Stiles pushes him into the master bedroom, and then keeps coming back to nudge at him as they get ready for bed. Nothing aggressive, just persistent: shoulder-bumping as Chris is stripping off his weapons and charms, a hand lightly touching Chris’ shoulder as they brush their teeth and scrub blood out from under their nails.

Chris changes into sweats and he’s digging around in the overnight bag somebody got him for a fresh shirt when Stiles comes up behind him and just—just folds over him. Arms around his waist, mouth grazing the back of his neck, knees swinging up on either side to cradle him. He shivers, his hands drooping into the bag, and almost loses his balance when they go through the clothes a lot quicker than he was expecting and bang into the floor.

Stiles catches him, nuzzling at his throat, and then tightens his arms around Chris’ waist. And Chris is bone-deep exhausted at this point, and not just physically, but he can feel his body trying to rise to the occasion anyway. His breath catches, his skin seems to tighten all over—his nipples tense and a direct line of heat seems to go from them down his belly and through his cock.

“So, don’t hate me, at this point I’m practically killing myself, but I think we should slow this down,” Stiles mutters into his nape. “And yeah, I know, slow _what_ down, because it’s not like we have anything going except a shitload of bad luck and everybody’s issues in a fancy gift basket from your dad. But…I really want something with you. I’m not going to try and paddle up that offshoot of the river Denial. It’s just…I’m not sure now is the greatest time.”

It takes more than a couple seconds. Probably a good minute, at least, and yeah, some of that is because Chris is selfish and he just wants Stiles against him, wants his alpha’s heartbeat thumping against his back, wants Stiles’ breath filtering softly over his shoulder. But Chris finally sighs and nods.

And, very tentatively, reaches up to put one hand over where Stiles has both clasped across his belly. He feels Stiles’ fingers move, and then some of them lift to overlap with Chris’, so he’s held in place a little more.

“Yeah, I know,” Chris says. “For what it’s worth, I already called them off the courting.”

Stiles laughs a little. Shifts their hands so that his forearms aren’t sagging so dangerously near Chris’ cock, which still has stupid ideas about where this could go, but then he also pulls Chris back so that they’re sitting instead of squatting. He’s just got a thin cotton tee and when they’re pressed that close, Chris can almost pretend it’s not that.

“So you seriously had the whole pack in it?” he says. “Even Lyds? Man, I can’t imagine what she made you give her for that.”

“You don’t want to know,” Chris mutters. “Though maybe I can earn a little interest in the meantime on the money we didn’t spend.”

Stiles stills. And then he laughs again, and noses in behind Chris’ ear, and his fingers drag up Chris’ belly a little bit. “Oh, my God, did you have a budget?”

“And a timeline, and a presentation, and a ratings system and all this…I just didn’t want to miss anything,” Chris admits. “Anything that I could help. I knew…I knew this wasn’t going to follow plan anyway, but I figured I’d try, for as long as I could.”

Stiles stops laughing. He doesn’t smell—he doesn’t smell upset, or angry, but he’s pressing his face into Chris’ throat to the point that it’s getting uncomfortable. Then he draws in a sharp breath, lifting his head just as a whimper rises in Chris’ throat. His hands pull apart, and then grab at Chris’ hands as Chris reaches for him, thinking the man’s leaving.

Instead Stiles takes his wrists and pulls them tight to his belly, at the same time sharp teeth catch at his throat. They don’t sink in, they’re just pricking his skin, telling him to hold and he does. He doesn’t even breathe.

“I’m not gonna just forget,” Stiles says abruptly. “I mean it, I want something. I want something so—God, you don’t know how bad. My beta, mine, Scott was first but you’re my hunter, you’re the one I turned and you already had a life, oh, my God, you did and you chose me anyway and I want you. I’m gonna have you, I promise. I promise, Chris.”

He says that, lipping all up and down Chris’ neck, pushing forward so Chris doubles over on himself, whining, fighting gravity to just keep in contact. And then Stiles twists them over onto their sides, pulls Chris over onto his back and climbs over him. Grabs his wrists again and pins them while kissing him messily, deeply. Still talking.

“Just not now, just, Dad’s tired and Scott’s going off on stupid loner missions and now Allison’s mad at him—” Stiles ducks to give Chris a nip on the throat, anticipating the way he jerks at her name, then comes back up to kiss the moan out of Chris’ mouth “—and he’s always extra-stupid when she is, you know that, and just—I just can’t do this right now. Just as soon as everybody calms down, I swear. Okay, Chris? Okay? You gonna wait?”

Then he backs off. Leaves Chris to tip his head against the floor, his arms against Stiles’ grip, chasing blindly till he cools off. He leans over Chris, eyes as hot as they’re worried, biting his lip and Chris chokes back a whimper, looking at him.

Swallows hard, trying to think, nose full of alpha scent and body shivering, and then Chris snorts. “Yeah,” he says. He’d be sarcastic, if he were somebody else. Point out he was prepared to just drop it completely, and then here Stiles is, _promising_ him, and—hell. “Yeah.”

Stiles smiles brilliantly at him. “Good,” he says. “I promise.”

Chris nods again, and the motion jars something loose because he can’t stop the begging noise that comes out. And then he makes it again, seeing how Stiles’ eyes change, get even hotter, and he—he just manages to thump his head against the ground, hard enough to clear it. “Alp—Stiles, you—get off, you have to get off, I can’t—”

_Stiles_ makes a protesting noise, and it is a damn good thing he also pushes off Chris right then, because that’s about it for Chris’ self-control.

“Hey,” calls somebody from the hall. Isaac, Chris thinks. “Safe or not?”

“Jesus, this is so not safe,” Stiles mutters. He rubs at the side of his face, then shuffles away a few feet. “Just—couple minutes?”

“What if I said I’ve got giant bowls of ice cream that you can put in your laps?” Erica asks.

Chris rolls himself over, then grunts as he half-heartedly crawls to the bed. He’s not as uncomfortable as he could be, thanks to the exhaustion, but it’s still no picnic. “Jesus, I don’t even care anymore.”

“Don’t worry, Allison’s still down with Boyd, messing with the chocolate syrup,” Erica says, bouncing in. “We’re gonna text her when you two aren’t embarrassing.”

“Oh, my God, why are you like this?” Stiles says, still huddling on the floor. “I know I tried. God knows I tried.”

Still, he thanks her for the ice cream. She grins and then hops onto the bed. Gives Chris a push along the way, sending him up against the headboard, and then she drops another bowl in front of him, just before staking out a spot near the foot of the bed.

Isaac settles down next to her with a bag of chips and what smells like seven-layer dip, and then, contrary to Erica’s words, Boyd and Allison show up. They crawl in too, and in just a couple minutes, the only spot left is next to Chris.

“Please tell me you’re not eating on the floor,” Allison says, looking at Stiles.

Stiles rolls his eyes and gets up. “Lyds and Jackson?”

“Taking the other guest room,” Isaac says, shrugging. 

Those two join in less with this sort of thing, so that’s nothing new, and John apparently stopped jumping in when the kids moved into the pack rental. But then Isaac ducks his head and mumbles that Scott said he’d just crash with Lydia and Jackson. Halfway onto the bed, Stiles frowns, and even Allison looks almost regretful.

“Well, okay, guess I’ll check them in the morning,” is all Stiles says.

Isaac relaxes, and Chris assumes that at some point he’ll slip out and switch to Scott. It’s unusual for him to take Stiles over Scott in the first place; if Chris was going to guess, he’d say Scott told Isaac to leave him alone and Isaac’s waiting his alpha out till Scott’s too tired to stick to that.

If Chris was going to, but honestly, he’s just damn tired now. And not hungry—he’s fit for company now, so he pushes the bowl away, ignoring Erica’s dirty look.

The bowl bumps something, and he looks up to see Stiles looking back at him. They’re awkward for a second, before Stiles shrugs and picks up the bowl, setting it on top of his empty one, and then curls around so that Chris’ head is up against his hip. “Don’t want it?”

“I’m good,” Chris says. He looks at Stiles a second longer, then puts his head down. Presses it against Stiles’ hip, and when the other man doesn’t react, he shifts himself around so that his arms are lying against Stiles’ leg, too.

Stiles sucks in his breath a little bit, but Chris forces himself to not look up. He said he’d wait, and he will. But in the meantime, he’s not such a saint as to not slip in a reminder or two.

Anyway, Stiles isn’t moving back. A couple seconds go by, and then Erica starts them into discussing what the hell she’s going to do about the paper she’s got due in two days, and Chris feels Stiles’ leg relax in place. So he relaxes. Half-closes his eyes, and when he feels Allison slip her hand into his, he completely closes them, and just listens to the rest of the pack talk over him.


	9. Chapter 9

Waking up the next day is bad.

Chris isn’t hurt or anything, although his feet are numb where Allison is lying across them, and he still feels like a pervy old man when he realizes that those are Erica’s breasts in his face. Yeah, they’re all werewolves, and they have different ways of looking at this kind of thing, but she’s still the same age as his daughter, and…well, he might not be looking for women after Victoria, but he’s not blind and Erica is very impressive.

“’s okay, told Boyd to roll her over whenever she starts sleep-groping,” Stiles mutters into Chris’ neck. And hell, but at some point he ended up behind Chris, and now he’s got Chris wrapped tight against him, arms laced across Chris’ waist, one leg thrown over Chris’ thigh with his foot just bumping Chris’ knee. “’s not gonna suffocate you with her rack, promise, alpha swear.”

“Great,” Chris manages. His voice is a little wavery. He’s trying not to shiver—he was plenty relaxed, almost to the point of bonelessness, before he realized who was twined over him, and now he’s…his body keeps seizing up and then forcibly going slack, his nerves fighting instincts that are just telling him to lie down and go with his alpha’s slow, sleepy heartbeat.

Stiles mumbles nonsensically, nuzzling at Chris’ nape. His nose presses into one of the dents between Chris’ vertebrae, two moist dots and then a warm suck as he inhales slowly. It tickles. It also sends a sharp stab of heat into Chris’ groin and _shit_ , his daughter’s right on his feet, shit, shit, he can goddamn smell himself and then Stiles yawns into his back, yawns and then kind of walks up over Chris’ shoulder using his chin and his mouth and when Chris squirms Stiles flattens his hand over Chris’ belly and his fingers are sliding under Chris’ waistband and—

“Oh, whoops,” Stiles says, voice pitching high in embarrassment, jerking himself off of Chris. He’s so sudden about it that the bed jounces and somebody growls in surprise, then falls off the far side. “Shit. Um. I—so I’m gonna hit the bathroom first, alpha right, bye.”

The bathroom door bangs shut almost before he finishes talking. And Chris just shoves his face into the bed and remembers he’s surrounded by teenage werewolves including his own _daughter_ , and hell.

“Da—” Allison starts, getting off his feet. Then she makes a startled, annoyed noise.

The hairs on the back of Chris’ neck prickle with magic, and he looks up just in time to see the privacy wards shimmering into place. “Okay, there we go,” Erica says, shooting Allison a pointed look. Then she turns to Chris. “So what the hell, I thought you two were finally getting it on.”

“It’s not a peep show,” Chris grunts. He rolls himself over onto his stomach, avoiding Allison’s gaze, and thinks very hard about smelling like a frigid, lonely pine forest.

Erica rolls her eyes. “Maybe say that when he wasn’t bending you over in front of a giant-ass window, daddy-o.”

Allison glares at her. “You’re not helping. And no, Dad, I didn’t see.”

“Rest of us kind of did,” Boyd says, climbing back onto the bed. He rubs the crusts from his eyes, then reaches back over the side of the bed and retrieves somebody’s phone.

“Anyway.” Erica plops herself cross-legged in front of Chris’ face, and then puts her hand up to stiff-arm off Allison’s attempts to drag her away. “He so should be dragging you in there with him, and telling us to just fight Jackson for the other bathroom. So why isn’t he?”

“I thought you said something about pack knowing when to butt out,” Chris mutters. He thinks he might be…well, he’s not fine, but he’s getting out of this damn bed, and getting himself a cold shower and some clothes. So he pushes himself up on his elbows, assessing, and then backs onto his knees and starts sliding towards the edge. “Things are on hold, Erica. Just leave it there.”

“What, because your dad’s popped up again?” Erica snorts. “Come on, if we put the sex on hold every time that happened—”

“Because Scott and I are fighting,” Allison says. She looks at Chris, then grimaces and hugs herself. “Oh, God, Dad, really? _That’s_ why?”

Chris is halfway to grabbing his overnight bag, but he sighs and abandons that and comes back to the bed to wrap an arm around her. “It’s not your fault. It’s just—there’s a lot. We need to get other things straightened out first, and—”

“And in the meantime you’re gonna blue-ball each other till everybody’s noses explode,” Erica mutters.

“Better that than us being so distracted we miss _Scott_ lying about something,” Chris says sharply. Then he sighs again. He rubs his face, and gives Allison a couple pats on the back. “Look. Not that…not that I don’t appreciate the concern, but…it’s not a good time.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get what you’re saying,” Erica says. Surprisingly. But when he stares at her, she just screws up her face and pinches at the bridge of her nose, smelling of exasperation and disgust and just that. “Whatever. I’m gonna go fight Lyds for the other upstairs bathroom, you can go hit the downstairs.”

Then she hops off the bed and saunters off, while he’s still trying to figure out if she’s really dropping it. Boyd follows her, shrugging, and that’s when Chris decides Erica really isn’t going to be pushy on this one.

“I guess she woke up on the nice side of the bed today,” Allison says under her breath. “Well, she owed us one, and…and Dad, I get it too, but—just, you’re sure. Because just because I’m mad at Scott doesn’t mean you should—I mean, you know, one of us should stay good with their alpha. Right?”

She’s trying to say that with good humor, but she’s straining so much that he can smell the hurt. Chris hugs her again, then kisses her temple. “Stiles and I are…we agree on this one. And you didn’t make Scott make the choices he made, all right, so don’t feel guilty either. We’re just trying to do what’s best for the pack right now.”

“Yeah, well, I still feel like you’re getting screwed over,” Allison says. She squeezes her arm around Chris, then pulls back and gets off the bed. Dusts at her hair and then tugs at her shirt, and looks up at him with a more believable smile. “Fine. Well, I guess we’ll just have to get all that other stuff out of the way for you.”

“Allison,” Chris says.

“I’m not going to do anything, Dad,” she says. She grabs his overnight bag, and then grabs her backpack from further along the wall. “Okay, I’m probably going to yell at Scott some more, but I think I’d be doing that anyway.”

Chris just sighs, because he knows _that_ particular smile of hers. “Just…just don’t do anything you’re going to regret later, all right? And if you want to take a step back, we can figure out something. Just remember sometimes it can work just as well to stay away for a while.”

“So, silent treatment is what you’re saying?” she says with mock-brightness. Then she shakes it off, and just leans against him as they head out into the hall. “No, I get it. I know. I just…I wish I could do something.”

“You’re doing plenty,” he says, and he gives her another kiss on the top of her head. “Now let’s go figure out what we’re doing today.”

* * *

It’s Monday but everybody’s skipping classes again, except for Isaac who’s already maxed out the number of labs he can miss this semester. Everybody’s also in and out, to the point that even with heartbeats and scents to go on, Chris can’t keep track of who’s at home.

Somebody went and got him his laptop and phone, so he settles with those in the living room with Lydia and John, and just works on where they are with tracking down Gerard. Information is starting to trickle in, but those are old queries and now they’ve got to put out new ones, and try and guess at where Gerard’s going to pop up next.

They’ve also got a little disagreement, besides the whole Scott issue. “I get it, I do, but the Hastur people had bombs in there, and one of them obviously knows how to work with them, and don’t you think we can stop there?” John says. “We’re not being too paranoid here?”

Chris sighs, supporting his face on his fingertips, and keeps reading through his inbox. At least the East Coast people seem to be paying attention to his note on the mountain ash. “I just think Gerard’s got something else.”

“Did you see something when you were in his head?” Lydia says.

“No. Well, not that I can—I don’t know,” Chris mutters. He digs his nails into his forehead and taps out an email reply with his other hand. “It’s not like I was looking when I was in there, I just wanted him off my leg. But it just feels like—it doesn’t feel right, just pointing the finger at the Hastur people. Look, what if they gave him other explosives, stuff he wasn’t keeping there?”

“Well, then he’ll have them wherever he’s holed up now, won’t he?” John points out, very reasonably.

Chris can’t disagree, but he still has that niggle in the back of his head that they’re missing something. And no, he’s not ruling out that sharing memories with Gerard might’ve screwed with him. “Somebody looked and made sure there aren’t claw marks on my neck, right?” he mutters.

“Well, I don’t think they’re nonconsensual ones,” Lydia says, very primly, with a glint in her eye that isn’t shy in the least.

“The concealer’s only worth a damn if you don’t rub it off,” John adds. He hooks his chin forward and Chris hastily jerks away his hand from his neck. Then he pulls out his phone. He checks it, shrugs, and slaps both hands on his knees as he gets up. “Well, I got to head down to the station, see what we’re getting out of the evidence room. Who’s on lunch today?”

Lydia pulls up a spreadsheet on her computer, then makes a face. “Scott and Allison.”

They all look at each other. Then Chris sighs and pulls out his car keys. “I’ll give you a ride down,” he says to John. “I’ll drop you off, then swing by the deli and pick up something.”

“Sounds good,” John says.

So they drive out, leaving Lydia to let the rest of the pack know, and twenty minutes later Chris is standing in front of the prepared-foods counter and frowning at his phone, jumping between text threads and trying to figure out whether _mozz + bt_ means the caprese sandwich (‘b’ meaning basil) or the uptown BLT (regular BLT plus your choice of cheese), sans lettuce. He keeps telling them to just put all the orders together and _email_ him, but nobody ever listens to that.

Then Scott’s car pulls up—it makes a very distinctive _chunk_ noise when he puts it into park, the source of which three werewolf mechanics haven’t been able to track down—and he and Stiles are in it. Stiles shakes his head as soon as he sees Chris, then holds up a scrap of paper.

“Stand down, no panicky, we just heard about lunch. Figured you might appreciate a little clarity in the orders situation,” Stiles says.

“It was my turn anyway, it’s not fair to put it on you,” Scott says.

Strangely, he’s got his arm thrown over Stiles’ shoulders. They’re like that all the time with each other, but usually it’s the other way around. Also, Stiles isn’t normally the one squirming uncomfortably, while Scott appears to be kicking at the back of Stiles’ ankle to get him to keep moving. And Stiles smells like somebody scruffed him all over with one of Chris’ old shirts, and he’s not wearing his usual over-shirt or a coat, just a gaming tee up top, and his jeans are at least two sizes smaller than normal.

“Did Erica get into your closet again?” Chris says, blinking.

Scott sighs. “I told her it’d be too obvious,” he mutters. Then he straightens up, just as Stiles glares at him, and pastes a rigid smile on his face as he pushes Stiles towards Chris. “So, anyway, I’ve got the food orders.”

“Actually, I have—” Stiles starts.

Scott grabs the paper from him. “So why don’t you two get the drinks while I wait on these?” he says, still smiling.

The lady over by the cheese case looks far too interested, so Chris just goes with it till he and a very annoyed-looking Stiles get around the corner. Once they’re standing in the soda section of the refrigerated cases, Chris looks over at the other man.

“I might have let myself get trapped by Erica and Scott in the basement, and Erica might have disrespected my alpha status long enough to noogie me into tapping out,” Stiles mutters, while skating his finger back and forth across the glass door of the case. “And then Scott tickled me. You know, I really hate it when people know you since you were born, and know all your weak spots, and are total ruthless bastards about exploiting them.”

Without his usual cover-up, the muscles in his arms and shoulders are a lot more…prominent, and Chris is just going to stick his head in with the sodas now. “Okay. So is Lydia drinking sugar-free or stevia-sweetened this month?”

“No, she wants the acai stuff,” Stiles says. He points, and then, when Chris is reaching for it, abruptly slaps his hand to his face and then groans into it. “Goddamn it.”

Chris pulls his hand back. “…acai regular or blueberry?” he tries, when Stiles doesn’t say anything else. And when that doesn’t work, he shuts the door and leans on it and tries not to feel like he wants to kill the rest of his pack. “Stiles? So…I’m guessing that they said something about me, and look, whatever it was, I really am fine with just leaving it till—”

Stiles grabs him and shoves him into the case and kisses him. Chris’ knees give out immediately, and he nearly claws the glass trying to get a handhold before he just hooks his foot around Stiles’ leg, and gets Stiles to shove him again and do the work with holding him up. The case actually rocks a little and Stiles, still eating out Chris’ mouth, swears and then pulls Chris back, sliding his hands into Chris’ back pockets.

Which doesn’t exactly do anything for Chris’ ability to stand on his own, but Stiles seems to be okay with Chris just twining himself around the other man in, shit, the deli.

“Um,” Stiles says, pulling off. He’s breathing hard, hot breath puffing up under Chris’ chin, and when Chris hitches and tips that up, his eyes go a little red. “Crap. Um. So. I had this whole speech about how I’m just being a chicken again and being an alpha means figuring out how to balance everybody, not just the people who are causing the problems and goddamn it, Chris, you’re being so good about this, why do you have to be so good, you’re just—”

Partway through that he starts nipping at Chris’ lips, little grazing touches that barely connect but that send racking shivers through Chris’ body. Chris claws at Stiles’ shoulders a little, whining, forgetting where the hell they are again, and Stiles swears and just knocks Chris’ head to the side with his chin, and then bends in and bites Chris on the side of the throat.

The lights go off.

Chris…realizes immediately that that has nothing to do with the firm fingers cupping his ass, or the mouth slowly sucking his will away, but it takes a couple seconds to go from that to really understanding what that means. And then he hears a sharp bark from Scott and both he and Stiles stiffen.

They jerk apart and drop into crouches, Chris silently grateful that he’d just said to hell with unstrapping his gun for a quick trip in, and had just shoved it further under his coat. He lifts that now, showing Stiles, and Stiles nods tightly and then cocks his head, sniffing and listening.

“This is really, really ridiculous now,” Stiles mutters. “The deli? Really? Really, people? Is nothing sacred?”

“You know it’s actually the third time somebody’s caught us in a food store, right?” Chris says. He takes out his phone and texts Lydia and John, and then is about to text Scott when he remembers the kid never remembers to put his phone on silent. So he puts that away, and then, after looking around, scoots to the end of the aisle and carefully opens a door so they can use the glass to see around the corner. “I don’t think it’s omegas.”

“Nah, don’t smell any,” Stiles mutters. They can both hear the store staff trying to usher out customers into the parking lot—luckily, seems like most everybody was clustered around the prepared-foods counter—but Stiles has pivoted around to face the back of the place. “Somebody’s coming in through the service entrance. And Chris, seriously, it’s not even where at this point so much as three times in one weekend? That’s nuts even for us.”

Chris shrugs. “I’ve had worse weekends.”

Stiles rolls his eyes as he eels across the aisle. “Don’t start giving me that stoic crap, I’m only just okay with the fact that I want to bend you over even when we’re in imminent danger, I am absolutely _not_ dealing with your stiff upper lip in the face of lifelong loyal unrequited love and just, God, okay, I’m gonna go beat them before we start making out again.”

He grabs one of the door handles, waits for some cue Chris isn’t picking up, and then silently, weightlessly slings himself up to land on top of the case. Hunches there for a moment and that’s when Chris picks up Scott moving towards them, but at a tangent so he can cover the front entrances. Once he and Stiles are level, Stiles also starts moving, crawling along the top of the case and then hopping over to the next one.

It’s a standard pattern and they don’t need to tell Chris to fall back. Chris loosens his gun in its holster, but keeps it there for now and gets up. He tracks the one employee who’s still doing sweeps of the store, then grabs a box of cornstarch and heaves it so that it goes sailing across the store to land near the front.

The employee pauses, then starts making tracks that way. When Chris is sure he’s not coming back, Chris eases out of the aisle and makes his way up after the two alphas. They still haven’t engaged with whoever’s breaking in, and now it sounds like they all might be heading for the storage areas.

Chris gets to the edge of the public area and then stops. There’s only one way in and out of the storage rooms and he’d normally stay where he is and bottleneck that, but he’s getting that nagging feeling again. He reaches for his phone, then pulls his hand away and pulls out his gun.

One of the interior storage areas suddenly erupts with snarls and banging noises. Chris hears a gun cocking, but then it clatters on the floor. Scott says something to Stiles about the door and the resulting clang is so loud that Chris, grabbing at his ear, stumbles and then falls into the side of the doorway.

“Chris?” Stiles says. “They’re down.”

Still shaking off tinnitus, Chris makes his way into the storage rooms. He finds Scott and Stiles just in front of the refrigerated area, by a massive steel door that has a big divot where the lock should be, with two unconscious men at their feet. “Bombs?” he says.

“First thing we checked,” Scott says, with a wry smile towards him. “They don’t have any on them.”

“They look like independents,” Stiles says. He flips a bullet to Chris.

It’s obviously handmade, and not that well. And when Chris unscrews the top and pours out the contents into his palm, he can smell right away that the wolfsbane hasn’t been dried properly. “But there’s something else in here,” he mutters, poking at the little pile. “I don’t know…it’s familiar but I can’t…”

Scott’s still squatting down by the men, checking their pulses. Then he sniffs loudly. He frowns, and then turns around. He keeps sniffing as he gets up and pads about the room, following a trail till he gets to…a vent in the wall, which has a ripped plastic packet stuck across it. He pulls it off and the powder residue looks the same as the stuff in Chris’ palm, and Chris suddenly remembers where he’s smelled this before.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Chris says. “Fairy dust. Get out, get _out_ —”

He’s flinging the powder off his hand as he talks, shaking his arm as hard as he can, so when Stiles grabs his other elbow, it throws him off-balance. Stiles doesn’t even stop, just grabs Chris around the waist and drags him out.

Scott’s gone ahead of them, but he stops abruptly and Chris runs into his back, then falls away as Scott, alpha-shifted, storms through the freight entrance and cannons right into the windshield of an SUV that’s trying to peel away from the loading dock. Stiles hauls him back up to his feet and Chris lets the other man take his weight as he yanks out his gun. He has to pull his shot a couple times as the car pinwheels around, but finally Scott swings out of the way and Chris can shoot into the engine; he doesn’t go for tires because he’s afraid a blowout might flip the car and get Scott trapped under it.

Chris hits something important and the car abruptly loses speed. Scott clambers over the top of the car, then smashes in a side window and knocks out the driver. The only person in there, apparently, and then he’s jumping down to the ground when Stiles pulls Chris back into the building.

“Guys?” Scott calls after them. “Hey! Hey, you okay?”

“Call the others!” Stiles yells back. He’s huffing up the side of Chris’ neck, fevered and frantic, his hands forcing Chris’ arms down to his sides as they end up against a wall.

Chris swears, feeling his gun drop from his hand. He can’t break Stiles’ grip so he tries to just play to instinct, tilting his head back, spreading his legs, letting Stiles press up against him. “St—alpha? Alpha, shit, did you—is it the—”

“And you’re so _awesome_ ,” Stiles moans into Chris’ neck. He shakes his head, sending his mouth skittering across Chris’ skin in a way that makes Chris groan.

Then he just slumps into Chris. Doesn’t move except to breathe, to make rough, wanting noises, but he’s not trying to rub into Chris, not trying to rip off their clothes. He smells like lust and hunger and fight, and it’s so intense that it makes Chris’ head swim, but he’s leaning on Chris, resting, no tension in his shoulders and back, and that’s when Chris figures out it’s not fairy dust at all.

“I can’t even,” Stiles finally adds. “Just, how did I even think—”

Chris twists his head around and knocks it into Stiles’ cheek, then worms and pushes till he’s got Stiles up and looking at him. “Stiles,” he says. He’s barely got enough breath to speak; he sounds like he swallowed a pack of razors. “Stiles. Listen. No dust on me, okay? You got that? This isn’t dust.”

Stiles blinks. “Ok—”

Then Chris throws himself forward. He knocks Stiles back from the wall, enough so that he can drop to his knees. He gets one hand free too, but Stiles tightens his grip around the other, still blinking hard. Barely even registers, honestly, Chris just goes with what he’s got and opens Stiles’ fly with his free hand and his mouth. His face, actually, nuzzling up the shirt, pinning it with his forehead as he fumbles with the zipper, and then God, he just presses himself against his alpha’s groin for a second, just breathes, just has all of that scent rubbing over him.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Stiles says, and his voice growls at the end, all alpha bass and gravel.

Shuddering, Chris pulls his head back and then bobs it forward again, swallowing down Stiles’ cock. He’s already whimpering around it, weight of it down his throat just as good as his alpha’s weight on his back would be. Pressing at him, holding him where he is, and fuck, he hasn’t done this in years but he kind of gets what they mean by that not mattering, with the right person. Not when he just wants to make it good, make his alpha feel good, and he’s too thick with that need to care about spit coming out down his jaw, about the burn in his throat, the ache of his stretching lips.

And then Jesus, but Stiles puts his hand on the back of Chris’ neck. Pulls his head up, cradles that against a forearm, and Stiles still has his wrist too and his alpha’s using both grips to steer him, rocking into his mouth, and Chris stops whimpering and starts purring because yes, that’s it. That’s what he wants. He wants his alpha to take this, to take him, to take what he’s got and just—keep it.

When Stiles comes, Chris shudders so hard that frankly, it’s a surprise to get hauled up, warm come still slicking the inside of his mouth, and get felt up and find he’s still got an erection waiting. He shudders again, whimpering, nosing into his alpha’s throat and his alpha laughs, amused, and just pulls him up by the ass, pinning his cock between them. Bites his throat when he tries to move.

“This is gonna be _so good_ , you’re so good, fuck, Chris, I can’t, fuck, fuck this stupid deli, seriously,” Stiles is crooning at him, licking over the bitten spots so Chris sighs and twists up his fingers in Stiles’ shirt. “Okay, fuck, we need privacy like now, because fuck them if they get any of you, we’re burning all those security tapes.”

They’re stumbling down something. Steps. They’re in the back, Chris thinks dazedly, and both cars are out front, and then he hears a car pulling around and doors opening, and then Stiles is shoving him up and back onto a hard plastic floor.

“Your dad’s closest, he says ETA ten minutes,” Scott says. “Stiles, I can’t drive you guys, I gotta go make sure nobody wanders back there, are you—do I need to knock you out or some—”

Chris snarls at him. And then goes slack, squirming and whining, as Stiles shoves a hand into the front of his jeans. He arches and rolls his cock right into Stiles’ fingers, and fuck, right, Scott thinks—something. Something that’s going to interrupt if they don’t tell him something. “Fine, we’re fine, just—Jesus, Scott, just if one _more thing_ gets in the way—”

“Just grab some bottled water, okay? And toss me the blessed oil from the glove compartment, and just get out and shut the fucking door,” Stiles says. He’s laughing, laughing and nuzzling up the front of Chris’ throat, mouthing wetly before he sinks his teeth into the tender flesh at the very top, between the vee of the jawbone. His hands jerk at Chris’ jeans, peeling them down, and then he pins Chris by the hips as he pushes his head into the collar of Chris’ shirt.

He’s just breathing, that’s all, just letting his breath steam up under the shirt, but Chris twists and bucks like those streams of air are hot, grabbing hands. Stiles purrs at him, pressing down over him and thank fuck, Stiles’ fly is still open because Chris doesn’t have the coordination to deal with clothes right now. And thank God for werewolf recovery, too, because Chris _needs_ that cock he can feel flushing up against his thigh, that Stiles is slowly pushing up between his legs, tucking its head behind his balls so he can feel it rubbing precome all over his skin, getting him all scented up.

Chris moans and they started kissing again at some point, and he wrenches his mouth further open, trying to get Stiles’ tongue to go as deep in there as it can. And then Stiles’ hand wraps around his cock and his _alpha_ , _his_ alpha and Chris comes. If Stiles wasn’t holding him down, he’d probably slam himself into the car wall, he’s so rough about it.

But Stiles is, and Stiles rubs his cheek and his mouth all over Chris’ throat and jaw while Chris goes through the aftershocks. Keeping him down, keeping him still till he settles again, and then Stiles starts rubbing again. With his hands, his fingers tracking up alongside his cock, pushing between Chris’ buttocks. Chris twitches and Stiles pulls back, then laughs and drops and puts his teeth to Chris’ neck. Lets Chris jab himself into them as Chris groans and spreads back onto one finger, two.

Three fingers and Stiles has to take them out just so he can grip Chris’ hips, pull Chris back from where he’s hiked himself up to bang his head into the runners of the driver’s seat. He nudges Chris’ head over with his chin, then sifts into Chris’ hair and starts sucking the blood off it, working his cock into Chris’ hole. Chris whimpers and drags his cheek over and over Stiles’ shoulder, rocking on where he has claws planted firmly in the floor, till Stiles moves down, starts sucking his neck again.

Stiles rumbles at him, stroking palms up Chris’ sides and then moving them out to pull Chris’ claws out of the floor. He maneuvers Chris’ arms around and then bends them up. Pulls Chris’ shirt off, God knows what happened to Chris’ coat and holster, and then pulls his arms up again, squeezing his wrists to either side of his head just as Stiles’ hips jerk and he slides the last inch of his cock in. Chris arches hard, then flops back against his alpha’s hold, throat up and panting.

“So fucking _hot_ , too,” Stiles says, tracking his mouth across Chris’ collarbone. He leaves a bite every couple inches. Works down the breastbone, then angles sideways till he’s nursing at a nipple, dragging begging noises out of Chris that Chris didn’t even know he could make. “So hot, Jesus, and you think you’re some old guy. Give me a break, Chris, God, even if we weren’t werewolves I’d fucking fuck you. And I’m fucking you right now, you’re on my cock, you feel that? You feel me in you?”

Chris can’t talk so he whines. Pulls his knees up, presses them around his alpha, then lets his legs fall back apart so whatever part of him Stiles wants, Stiles can get at.

“Yeah, I know, so good, feels so fucking good,” Stiles is saying, still sucking at Chris’ nipple, spitting the words out around it. “And you’re gonna feel it, I’m gonna fuck you open and you’re gonna feel it, smell like it, God, I was so fucking _pissed_ with Erica rubbing on you, you smelled like her and I love her but you should smell like _me_. Me, me, my cock, you’re on _my_ cock and you’re gonna come on it, you’re gonna, you’re so _good_ —”

He shifts himself just a little in Chris, just a roll of the hips, but that’s it. Chris comes again, bucking on his alpha’s cock, his own cock slapping up against Stiles’ belly as his alpha purrs in approval. Stiles stretches up and kisses him, then nuzzles down the side of his face as he comes down, bleary and shaking. His whole body feels like a sack of pins and needles, and like somebody’s thrown an electrode in there and keeps hitting the power so that all those pins and needles, they keep jumping around and can’t settle.

And Stiles isn’t stopping either. He works his way back down to Chris’ chest, to the other nipple, and laves it with his tongue while Chris whines and pulls at his hands, feeling like lightning’s bolting over the electric shocks. So Stiles lets go of one of his hands, but before Chris can do anything, Stiles reaches down and scrapes up some of Chris’ come. Rubs it over Chris’ nipple, licks it off, and then does it again.

“Smell like I fucking _have_ you,” Stiles says. “Make you smell like it till you can’t fucking wash it off.”

And Chris’ hand just stays slack by his head, stuck there just as firmly as the one Stiles is still gripping. Chris moans and shivers, and closes his eyes as Stiles starts fucking him all over again.

* * *

“Shit we do not bribe the cops to not see,” John sighs when Chris and Stiles finally get out of the car. “Get the hell back in and go home, I’ll deal with this.”

Stiles drives. Chris is already feeling it, a low stretched ache between his legs and angling up from his hole into the front of his groin, but when they park and Stiles pulls him over onto his alpha’s lap, he goes.

They rub off in the car. And then almost do it on the stairs, before Jackson, holding his hand over his eyes, shoves them the rest of the way up and into the master. And then Stiles fingers him in the shower, till he’s hanging from the man’s shoulders and maybe sobbing under the water, and when they hit the bed, Stiles screws him from one side of it and back. Chris actually—has not tested out the whole werewolf stamina thing before this, let alone the marking frenzy that people sometimes go into. He was mourning Victoria, and also, trying to run from his father, and the odd solo handjob did him just fine.

But Jesus, once they start, it’s like he breaks his off-switch. He can feel he’s getting tired, can feel the healing slowly get overwhelmed as his muscles start to burn, his bones rattle, but he can’t stop presenting his throat, his ass, whatever the hell Stiles happens to be staring at. And then Stiles growls, and Chris whines, and they go again. He thinks he might actually just pass out when Stiles is mid-fuck, and that’s how they stop.

Stiles isn’t still in him when Chris wakes up, well into the next day, but Chris thinks he is for a couple seconds, his ass aches so much. And Stiles _is_ still in bed, half-sprawled over Chris, head tucked into the curve of Chris’ neck and one hand possessively curled over the back of Chris’ thigh.

“Hey, don’t move, you probably feel like hell,” Stiles mumbles. He gives Chris’ ass a pat, then drops his hand back to Chris’ thigh. Breathes in and out, and then pulls himself up with a groan. “Shit. I should check on the pack, or something. All the people trying to kill us and whatever.”

Chris tenses a little when he loses the warm pressure over him, but he makes himself relax. “Don’t think I’d say hell, but yeah, feeling it,” he says. “What time is it?”

Stiles tells him. Then snorts and puts his hand on Chris’ shoulder, pushing Chris back as he tries to get up. “Oh, no, fuck whatever you’ve got going,” he says. “You stay here, I’ll go…run down the alpha checklist and whatever, and get breakfast. I might take a while to get going but I’m doing this shit right, now.”

Chris isn’t exactly unhappy to not have to move, especially once his legs fully wake up, but he pulls himself over onto his side so he can look at Stiles. The other man doesn’t look or smell annoyed, really. Or upset, or worried, or anything except sort of sleepy, with a good helping of sexed out. God, they reek.

Stiles looks back, and then grins, and he’s so warm and loose about it that Chris purrs, just seeing it. He pauses, then crawls back over and leans down and kisses Chris softly on the mouth. Then again, longer, with some tongue, and they’re halfway through a third when Stiles groans and drags himself back.

“You’re really irritating how much I just wanna keep making out with you,” he says.

“Okay,” Chris says, shrugging.

Stiles huffs in mock annoyance, even as he dips a little back towards Chris. He stops himself, then reaches out and just rests his hand over the side of Chris’ neck. “So you love me,” he says.

He’s serious all of a sudden. Still relaxed, still warm in a way that makes Chris want to curl up around him, but the kidding air is gone. Chris feels his nerves try and jump and fights that back, and just tries to focus on the hand lying on his neck. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Stiles says simply. He pauses, then kisses Chris again. “Okay. Okay. I really—I’m getting breakfast. Really. Don’t like—move or get kidnapped or get taken hostage.”

“I’ll work on that,” Chris says, and then he leans up and presses his lips to Stiles’.

“Damn it,” Stiles says, kissing him back. His hand grips at Chris’ neck, and then he lets go and gets off the bed. He walks sideways to the door, pulling on pants, still looking at Chris, and when he finally turns around, he’s grinning.

Chris grins some himself, settling back down on the bed. Sure, he feels like somebody fucked him through a couple walls and maybe turned him human again in the process, but it’s all good ache. It’s ache that tells him he didn’t just make it up again, sitting in bed and watching the clock.

He’s half-asleep when he hears somebody tiptoeing towards the door. Chris sniffs, then swears and tugs a sheet over himself, just as Allison pops her head into the room. “Dad?”

“Hey,” Chris says. He starts to sit up and the blanket slips, and he grabs it back, feeling his face flush. And then he looks up and Allison’s face is saying that nothing short of a full-body deodorizing suit is going to hide things. “Shit. Uh, is something—is something wrong?”

“Nope,” Allison says, dragging her eyes back to his face. She blinks hard, then puts her hand up as…yeah, his daughter’s giggling at him. “Well, I mean, we were—Erica said somebody needed to so I figured I’d better be the one—you good on supplies?”

For a second Chris thinks his face might have caught on fire, it’s so hot. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Dad, give me a break,” Allison says. “You might not need condoms but I know you still need lube, and if Stiles got out his gear, maybe batteries and—”

Chris chokes. “ _Why_ do you know about that?”

“Because I’m a good daughter and I do my research on things my dad gets into?” Allison says. Now she’s outright smirking. “Okay. Okay, I’m going to take that as a no. Oh, but Stiles is getting you food and water, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris manages. Rationally, he knows that Stiles and Allison share a house, and Allison’s been watching the guy date, and there’s no way she doesn’t walk in on stuff. And also, he’s a hypocrite, with the bite trail that he can feel going from one shoulder all the way to his hip. But discussions no father is ever really ready for. “No, he said he’d get that. Wait, what about the—”

“Lydia and John are coordinating with Scott, it’s covered,” Allison says. She’s already pulling the door shut. “Don’t worry about it. Lydia said if you’re not out by dinner, then we’d come get you, ‘cause she’s got some stuff she wants to go over, but that if you come down before that, she’s gonna charge us for the trip to the rare books center that she’s canceling now.”

“The trip to where?” Stiles says.

Allison eeps, then disappears. There’s a brief scuffle and then Stiles stumbles into the room, glaring over his shoulder, a very loaded plate and a pitcher of juice in hand.

“Just because you rearranged the plan doesn’t mean we can’t still do dates!” Stiles yells. Then he shakes his head. Toes the door shut and comes over to the bed, setting the pitcher down on the side table and the plate on the mattress by Chris. “Unfair. If I’d known that was on the line, maybe I would’ve held out.”

Chris moves over and gets his head over Stiles’ thigh, and yeah, he grins when Stiles’ hand lands on his nape. It’s just—they’re already sliding so easy into it, Stiles didn’t even look when he put his hand down, and it’s just as good as Chris had been hoping. And while Chris feels like if he breathes wrong, he might throw it off, he’s still damn well enjoying it. He’s not going to be so stupid as pretend he’s not. “We can still go, it just won’t come with a manufactured emergency.”

“Oh.” Stiles ponders this, while poking holes in a roll. Then he shrugs. He starts eating the roll, his other hand slowly stroking Chris’ neck. “Well, in that case, clearly, I made the right call.”

“Yeah?” Chris says, and he can’t help a little uncertainty in his voice.

Stiles looks down. His hand closes over Chris’ nape, gently but firmly, and then he pulls Chris up by it. “Yeah,” he says, kissing Chris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for the sake of clarity, the above is not supposed to be drugged sex. In this world, you need more than just brief skin and inhalation contact with a small amount of fairy dust for it to have an effect on you.


	10. Chapter 10

The next couple weeks are one of the best stretches of Chris’ life, even if he spends a big chunk of it trying to track down his father. Turns out the hunters at the deli were yet more beneficiaries of Gerard’s deal with Hastur Inc., and even with Pallid Mask pulling out, they have no way to tell how many more there might be out there. So they just end up putting alerts out to all the packs in the area, and Chris has a couple very awkward talks with former hunter colleagues about the feasibility of information-sharing.

“Still kind of iffy about taking anything from werewolves, but I think they’re starting to get the point about being held on illegal firearms possession and RICO charges,” he says, purring.

“Yeah, well, we’re all pretty iffy about giving them anything that might end up blowing back on us, so sounds like we’re at least on the same page,” Stiles snorts.

While he’s licking the back of Chris’ neck, just skirting the fresh bites he’s laid down there. Chris ditched the fumigation cover story and moved back to his house, and Stiles has taken to dropping by almost every night so they can get some privacy. And, more and more often, during the day—like now, with them sprawling out on Chris’ couch after a good, hard fuck over it, soaking up the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows. So Chris really would rather be working on jobs that don’t involve his family, but if this is what he gets every time he comes home—well, goes a long way towards making up for it.

“So Dad and I had another talk with the sheriff, and a couple state cop buddies of his, and till we get a grip on how many rogues we’ve got out there, we’re just gonna report any hunters who show up in town. The big families can call ahead if they’ve got a hunt spilling over, but otherwise we’re just banning everybody,” Stiles says. His hands round over Chris’ shoulders, then lightly scratch down Chris’ back and sides. They lift as Chris arches, then settle back on Chris’ hips. “You don’t know anybody coming in, do you?”

Chris kind of doesn’t even want to bother checking. He’s pretty done with rogues himself, and yeah, yeah, there are some good people working the field but Stiles is easing his hands under Chris, curling his fingertips up and just touching a few bites he left on the insides of Chris’ thighs, and _fuck_ but Chris just wants to lie here on his alpha’s cock and shiver.

“You’re totally ignoring me.” Stiles nips Chris’ neck, spurring a placating burr out of Chris, and then closes his mouth over the spot for a second. While he’s still sneaking his fingers up inside Chris’ thighs, slowly kneading them apart as his cock starts to harden inside Chris again. “We’re going to have to rewrite the manual again at this rate. I’ve told like a zillion people that alpha-beta sex doesn’t have to result in porno subby behavior.”

“’m listening, okay, all hunters?” Chris mutters. When he flexes his ass, Stiles growls a little and ruts forward, his teeth scraping over Chris’ nape, and proves it’s not just betas who get caught up in instincts. “Non-humans too?”

Stiles moves his head against Chris’ neck, then maybe realizes that nodding to answer and nuzzling to get sex going feel pretty much the same to Chris. “Um, yeah. It’s just easier, it’s not like we can get all the cops up to speed on how to tell the difference between fae and human and dhampir and blah blah blah okay, shit, we’re gonna do it again, aren’t we?”

Chris rolls his hips back again, grinning when he hears Stiles’ growling drop another notch, and then he makes himself pull up his arms. He grabs the cushions, then twists himself off Stiles’ cock. Hisses a little—he’s been on there for a good ten minutes, and after way more than enough sex to backburner his healing—and then works himself around so he’s lying on his back instead.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve got pack dinner to get ready for soon,” Stiles says, looking Chris over, chewing his lip, his hands immediately pulling Chris’ thighs up and apart as his cock bumps back up against Chris’ hole. “Like in thirty.”

“Twenty-five, oven needs warm-up time,” Chris says. Deliberately putting his hands over his head as Stiles slides him back on, like fitting a hand in a glove. He moans, bending his head back, and then goes slack as his alpha takes up the invite, pinning his wrists and fucking up hard into him, mouth nipping and pulling his nipple.

He’s not as into that as Stiles is, to be honest, but he’s damn well into the way Stiles does it. Demanding, possessive, happy to leave marks that sting and itch for hours after. Talking most of the time, telling Chris that, telling him he’s gonna want to go shirtless and screw Erica, she’s going to be all over it but he’s just going to have too many bites, getting dressed is going to be too much trouble, he’s just going to sit like that at the table in front of everybody and look so _fucked_ —

So no, Chris gets dressed later, top to bottom. But yeah, it’s more than awkward, sitting on a sore ass with a constellation of bites under his clothes, trying to pretend like Allison isn’t getting into a kicking fight with Erica under the table about how Erica keeps sniffing and smirking.

“I, um, I’ve got this body wash you might want to try?” Allison says when they’re washing dishes later. “Dad? You know, so…are you going to be weird about this? Again?”

Chris carefully sets a glass in the dishwasher rack. “I’m trying not to,” he mutters.

“Seriously, Dad, I helped you with the budget and the presentation for Lydia, it’s not like we didn’t both know where this was going,” she mutters back, handing him another dish.

“You know, most people hate the idea of their parents in the bedroom,” Chris says.

Allison rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, most people aren’t werewolves being hunted down for power by their crazy alpha grandfather. I’m just—” she stutters a little, just as Scott’s voice floats over from the living room “—I guess I’m just too busy being happy that one of us is getting some.”

“Not your best argument,” Chris sighs. But he suppresses his wince and puts down the sponge, and looks over at her. “You want to go on the porch and talk about it?”

They’ve got privacy wards up in every room, but being overheard isn’t really Allison’s main concern right now, given how thinly her lips are pressed together. She slaps her towel a little roughly over a plate, then grimaces and runs it over the plate again, more gently.

“I’m just still so damn angry with him,” she finally says. “And—no, it’s not about Gerard. We talked about that. And yeah, Dad, I apologized about his mom, and I get where he’s coming from, but it was stupid. He was stupid. But Scott’s just…he’s always like that, you know? He’s always trying to figure out how to keep people away from getting hurt, that’s just how he is. You can’t really be surprised about it.”

“Well, so what is it about?” Chris says.

She shoots him a surprised look. Pushes the hair back from her face, then shrugs diffidently. “Just this whole thing where he can’t figure out what we are, I guess,” she says. “I feel like…I think I know what I’d—what I’d like us to be, and I just don’t know what’s keeping him. And not only are you not telling me I don’t need him, I’m not sure you’re even still mad at him.”

Chris makes a face at her. Which makes her smile, because that by itself pretty much gives him away, but he goes ahead and makes himself say the words too. Because even so, that smile of hers is pretty fragile-looking. “I’m mad at him because he needs to shape up, and I think Stiles hit it on the head, saying he’s still pulling beta moves. But…he’s a good person. And I’m still your father, and I’m still going to have a hard time watching anybody try and take care of you, Allison. Because I know you can do it yourself. But if you think he’s going to make you happy, well, I want you to have that.”

She smiles at him a little wider, just his girl. Allison slides the plate she’s been working on into the dishwater, then pulls the next one from the sink, and they work together in comfortable silence for a few seconds.

“Well, so why _aren’t_ we kicking it like you and Stiles?” she mutters. “I can’t ever sit on the couch again, you’d think I could at least ruin our armchair.”

Werewolf reflexes are the _only_ thing that save that mug. “Allison,” Chris says, and then he makes himself take a deep breath. “Listen. I’m trying…really trying here. So…”

“I’m just—I’m just really frustrated,” she says. She gives him a poke in the ribs, but it’s half-hearted. “He just won’t even talk to me about it. Pack stuff, Stiles stuff, your stuff, sure, but the moment I get to him and me, he runs away. He literally runs away, Dad. I came _this_ close to shooting him the other night just so I could make him come up with something besides his usual ‘I don’t know if we’re ready yet’ line.”

Chris sighs. “Don’t shoot your alpha, Allison.”

“I know! I know, it’s just…” she trails off, flapping her hands irritably. “Just, why is he waiting?”

“Well, normally I’d say ask him—” he looks at her and she rolls her eyes, but lets him finish “—but there are two people here, you know. He might not be ready, and I’m not sure you can do anything about that.”

“But what if he’s just stalling like Stiles was?” Allison says. “That’s the thing, Dad. I don’t even know. Because I don’t even know what his problem is.”

She glowers at the towel in her hand, then flips it to the counter. Then she folds her arm over her chest and starts raking at her hair with her free hand. When he wraps an arm over her shoulders, she’s stiff and resisting, and then she slumps against him.

“I know,” Chris says. He squeezes her, then rubs his hand up and down his arm. “Look, we sort out this last mess, and if he hasn’t…then you and me, we’ll take that leftover money from courting and we’ll go see Lydia again. _Not_ for you to go courting.”

“No, God, that’d just freak Scott out even more,” Allison says. She turns her face up at him, grinning. “So we’re gonna plan an intervention?”

“So you’d better come up with a convincing presentation for Lydia,” Chris says. He pauses, and then rubs at his face. “And throw in a lot of video for Stiles, too. I’ll talk to him, but—”

“Yeah, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have a recap for whatever you don’t get to before you guys go and…okay, okay, I’ll stop.” Allison snickers as she picks her towel back up. “Thanks, Dad. You know, I…I was with you no matter what, but I’m glad that Stiles really is—I think he really is good for you. You’re a lot less worried.”

“Yeah,” Chris says. He scrubs a few more cups and plates, and then he smiles to himself. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

* * *

Obviously, Chris isn’t going to just spring a Lydia-supervised intervention on Scott. Even if he hated the guy, which he honestly hasn’t for a few years now, he wouldn’t do that. And anyway, he owes Scott for helping Stiles to get over _his_ issues. So he goes and he gets Scott down for a talk.

“I thought we were meeting with Stiles’ dad to talk about Gerard’s warrant,” Scott says, looking a little wary. He’s still got terrible instincts for danger, in Chris’ opinion, but once in a while he shows he’s picked up something from Stiles. “Where is he?”

Chris holds up his phone. “John’s inside, just finishing up something with a deputy.”

He and Scott are in the Stilinskis’ backyard, right at the border with the preserve. They both have patrol tonight, and then John wanted to meet, so Chris just texted Scott to come over a little early.

Actually, he texted both Stiles and Scott, but he knows that Stiles is held up helping Jackson with a client across down. He wasn’t expecting John to already be hosting somebody, but that happens pretty often—John can’t exactly talk to his law enforcement contacts about werewolves in a publicly-accessible office—and that just spares Chris the trouble of trotting out an excuse to get Scott on his own.

“Okay,” Scott says, still looking wary. “So…I’m guessing you want to talk about something else?”

“A couple things, actually,” Chris says. He’s been…well, busy getting Stiles to fuck him whenever they get a little time, so he hasn’t actually gotten around to yelling at Scott about the whole Deaton-Hastur-Gerard thing. Yeah, he’s slipping, and Scott’s just lucky that way. “One, you ever keep from me again that Gerard’s around, and alpha or not, I’ll kick your ass, Scott. He’s my father, if somebody makes a call about what to do with him, it’s going to be me and not you.”

Scott grimaces, but he’s already nodding. “Yeah. Sorry. And look, just, that was my idea, so don’t hold it against Dr. Deaton—”

“I’m going to hold whatever I feel like against that man, and I don’t give a damn if he’s your personal cheerleader,” Chris mutters. “Two…thanks for talking to Stiles.”

Scott blinks. “I said I was going to.”

“Yeah, and thanks for doing it,” Chris adds. He shifts, scratching at his neck. Stops when he realizes he’s pushing down his collar—Stiles at least stopped biting above that—and working at a healing bite. “I was…I would’ve waited, as long as he wanted, but I’m glad I don’t have to.”

“I know, and I’m glad he didn’t either,” Scott says. He averts his eyes from Chris’ throat, but otherwise simply looks pleased. “He’s got a lot on his plate, and he needs the help, and well, I try, but I can’t do…some stuff, and…and I’m just really happy for both of you.”

“Thank you,” Chris says. “So why are you running away from Allison?”

Scott flinches. He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, then takes a step back, like he might actually bolt on _Chris_. But then he realizes how stupid that would be, and he sighs and he looks up at Chris and—

—the first thing that registers is hitting the ground, off-balance and nauseated, dinner trying to forcibly crawl up Chris’ throat. He scrabbles at the grass, shifted out, shaking his head and trying to understand what happened. The ground’s still shaking, was there an earthq—he smells fire.

Fire and stinging chemicals and wolfsbane. Chris sneezes, rolling over onto his hands and knees, and Scott goes leaping by him in full shift, and then seems to slam into an invisible wall, just short of the Stilinski house’s back steps. Scott immediately flips back onto his feet, snarling and shaking his head, and then rears up and thrusts his forelegs at the air. One paw goes through but the other gets stuck, like he’s found a hole in the invisible wall. He starts scratching and clawing at it, trying to climb up, but the hole seems to be too small.

By then Chris has gotten back up and run over. He hits the wall too and he’s feeling at it frantically. There has to be mountain ash but he doesn’t see a line, he can just feel it and it’s all uneven, it’s strong here and not there and _shit_ , he knows what this is. “It was a bomb, they put the ash in a bomb, it’s got to be all over,” Chris hisses. “John? John!”

Scott steps back, howling, and then abruptly stops that and races off to the side. Chris dimly registers a car engine racing away, but he’s busy trying to find a big enough hole in the barrier. If the ash was in a bomb, the scatter will be uneven, it shouldn’t be in a solid ring, just blowing through the house would’ve—he finds one. He lunges through and then rams up against another barrier, hard enough to make him feel like he’s concussed.

Chris shakes his head, then starts all over again with finding a gap. He can hear a heartbeat inside the house but it’s weak and uneven. But it’s moving. “John?” he shouts again.

The barrier parts, but just then fire billows out a broken window, spitting sparks and flaming embers towards Chris. A couple hit his face and hands, and he has to slap out a flame on his jeans before he can claw at the ash barrier. He gets another few feet forward, enough to get onto the back porch, and then he has to paw off another scatter of sparks.

The back door, what’s left in the frame, falls apart and then somebody stumbles through the hole. They’re covered in flames and black soot; Chris has to ID John by his scent. John takes another step, then collapses and he’s just a couple inches short and Chris can’t get through the ash.

John lifts his head, sees Chris. “Dep—deputy, the new guy,” he rasps. “He fucking—he had his gym bag with him, he left it—”

“There’s ash, John, you have to crawl,” Chris hisses. He’s still trying to get at the man, but now he can’t even go sideways, or back. He can’t find the holes he used to get forward in the first place. The air’s blowing out of the house, furnace hot and it must be shifting around the ash. “You have to, I can’t get you—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John swears. He tries to lift himself and something—falls _off_ him, black and crispy and Chris fights not to throw up. He collapses and swears again, then coughs and blood’s coming out of his mouth. “Jesus. And I fucking—just get my fucking kid through college, just do that and I’m—fuck. Fuck, Chris, get back. There’s wolfsbane, you’re—fucking black shit—”

There’s stuff running out of Chris’ nose and mouth, and he has to keep spitting it away. He ignores it and keeps trying to force his hand through the barrier. “John, goddamn it, think about Stiles—”

“Yeah, _am_ ,” John says. He looks at Chris again, eyes wide and all whites. “Listen, I’m—I got enough dead, all right, I had to watch—watch them all leave us. Just—just waiting for him to grow—so you fucking _kill_ your father already. And keep him—don’t let him—he’ll feel—it’s not his—”

John’s head drops. Chris shouts at him, just shouts, no words, trying to get him to stay awake, and now somebody’s yanking Chris back through the barrier, found the holes but Chris fights them till a sudden gust swings a fiery timber at him. He ducks, hates himself for it, and then they drag him all the way back into the yard.

It’s Scott. He smells like blood and wolfsbane and internal fluids, Chris sees a bullethole in his shirt, another one in his arm, trickling black. Grabs that arm anyway, because it’s closest, and shoves Scott back towards the house.

Scott’s already going. He manages to power through most of the ash barrier, and gets a hand to John, and then a fresh burst of wind blows him off the porch. He stumbles back, shakes his head, and then—no heartbeat. His shoulders drop the same moment that registers for Chris. No heartbeat.

Chris tries to get up, but a gush of black stuff comes out of his mouth and it feels like all his insides have turned to mush. His hands slip in it, there’s so much, and then Scott is calling his name but he can’t answer because the black stuff just keeps pouring and pouring and pouring. God, he’s dying, he thinks, as Scott lifts his head.

* * *

Chris doesn’t die. He spends the better part of a week unconscious in the back of Deaton’s clinic, with an IV drip of detox hooked into him, and later they tell him Stiles agreed to call in Deaton because his lungs weren’t holding up and they wouldn’t have been able to get anyone else down in time. But he doesn’t die. It doesn’t kill him, and in fact, when he wakes he’s in better shape than Scott, who handed him off for treatment, kept the pack on point through securing all the dangerous stuff in the house and dealing with the fire department and the cops, and talked Stiles out of just burning the whole sheriff’s office to the ground before collapsing from the couple wolfsbane bullets in him that he hadn’t told anybody about.

Stiles has to rig up some impromptu magic circle to get the wolfsbane out of Scott quick enough, which drains him to the point that the pack is effectively being run by Lydia and Erica—who is a few months older than Boyd, and therefore most senior beta—while he and Scott sleep it off. They’re also in Deaton’s clinic for the time being, so when Chris wakes up, he’s not alone. He’s sandwiched between both alphas, bedded down on sleeping bags in a back room that smells like cat and werewolf blood.

“Oh, shit,” he hears Isaac say, and then the other man runs off, yelling for Deaton.

Chris raises his head and looks around. Scott is curled up by the wall, ashen grey, with a black-stained towel wadded up under his head. Stiles is clinging to Chris, face pressed so hard into Chris’ shoulder that he tries to move, not sure how the man is breathing, and gets scratched hard on the hips. They’re both deeply asleep, and don’t wake all through Chris settling back and Lydia coming in and them debriefing each other.

Lydia is visibly tired, her make-up sloppy enough to show bags under her eyes and a waxy sheen to her skin. The deputy John mentioned has skipped town, and there’s already talk about an FBI inquiry into the firebombing, she tells Chris. John and them had been using the Hastur Inc. incidents to set Gerard up as head of a drug smuggling ring, hallucinations and violent behavior and all, and it’s worked—a new warrant’s been issued for Gerard, high-priority, naming him armed and dangerous and likely to shoot first.

“I need one of you,” she finishes. “I’ve got neighboring alphas calling and they’re already asking whether somebody needs to start patrolling our territory while we get things together.”

That’s never a no-strings offer. Chris squirms free of Stiles’ grip, wincing and hissing as all his bones creak at once, and then he pulls the IV out of his arm. “I’m up,” he says.

He’s not an alpha but he’s dealt with enough assholes in his day to know what they’re looking for, what they’re going to see as weakness. He makes a few calls, puts in a showpiece patrol with Erica, and then gets carried back to his house—their current base, since the pack rental’s too open to outsiders—where Allison just looks at him, dry-eyed with shaking hands, and then helps him set up the living room as a war room.

Stiles wakes up a day later, but doesn’t drop by the house. He’s out with Erica on patrols, meeting other alphas, talking to John’s old colleagues. Making funeral arrangements. Putting in enough appearances as a grieving son so that they don’t have to deal with suspicious townspeople on top of everything else. He texts but they’re curt and all business.

So the first alpha Chris ends up seeing is Scott, grimy and uncharacteristically grim, standing in his kitchen while Allison pulls fresh bullets out of him and yells about keeping secrets again.

“Yeah, I know, but Stiles said tell everybody else after,” Scott says when she pauses for breath.

Allison blinks hard, holding up a bullet fragment in her forceps. They don’t look like wolfsbane bullets, at least, but Scott’s still so pale that his healing must be having trouble keeping up.

“What did you do?” Chris says.

Scott looks at both of them, and then looks at the ground. Then he looks back up, straight at Chris. “That deputy, the one Gerard bribed to drop off the bomb,” he says quietly, steadily. He’s sad but there’s a terrible calmness to it; he’s accepting of whatever Chris might throw at him in a way Chris has never seen him before. “We got a lead, I caught up with him, he’s dead.”

Allison sucks in her breath. Then flinches as the bullet fragment slips from her forceps. She winces and picks it up, and then puts it slowly on the table, looking at Scott. He tenses the shoulder closest to her, but keeps looking at Chris.

“You know, when my mom died,” Scott starts, and then his voice wavers. He takes a deep breath. Stiffens as Allison puts her hand on his shoulder, then relaxes slightly. “I said I was going to make up for that. Not let that happen again. And Stiles asked me—do you want to go kill them? And I said no, because that’s not what I—it’s still not what making up for it means to me.”

Said hunters are currently serving out life-time first-degree murder sentences—one of them, anyway. Chris happens to know that John arranged a prison assassination for the other.

“So I asked Stiles what was going to help him,” Scott goes on. “And he said, Scott, I’m going to kill them. I know you’re not going to like it, but I need to. I gotta do it for Dad, this is what I have to do. And I told him I don’t like it, but I’ll do it for him, because he needs to stay and bury his dad. I’ll do it because I’m not sure he’ll come back if he does it.”

“You’re not going out again,” Allison says sharply. She raises the forceps, then abruptly drops them and just wraps her arms around Scott, pushing her head into his neck. “Alpha, _no_.”

Scott jerks when she presses into him. It’s half-pain, half-shock, and then he hitches again as he looks down at her. He hesitates, then nuzzles into her hair, purring.

Allison starts crying. Chris backs out of the kitchen, just as Scott lifts his arm and gingerly slides it around Allison’s waist. He goes to the living room, where Lydia’s snoozing on the couch, a fistful of notes dangling from her hand. A bleary-eyed Jackson glances up at him, then goes back to his phone call with…sounds like one of their lawyers.

Chris leaves that room and goes downstairs to the basement. He stares at all the weapons he’s got there for a while, he’s not sure how long, and then he sits down on the floor. When that gets too tiring, he pushes over and lies down, curling his arms over his head.

* * *

“Chris,” Stiles says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Chris. Come on. Get up.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris rasps. He can’t push Stiles off, can’t resist the warm palm on him, can’t help breathing in when Stiles pulls at him and his face ends up pressed into Stiles’ leg, but all of that hurts. It feels so good and he doesn’t deserve and it hurts. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it should’ve been me, I’m sorry—”

“Shit,” Erica says. “Look, go back up, I’ll—”

“He’s my fucking beta and I’m still the fucking alpha,” Stiles says harshly, just before pulling Chris onto his knees.

Chris whines, trying to keep his head down, but Stiles grabs him under the jaw and wrenches his head up. He gets a glimpse of his alpha’s exhausted, bitter face, just before Stiles slaps him.

The blow’s hard enough to knock him out of Stiles’ hand. He throws his arm out, bangs into the wall, and then feels hot breath on his throat and instantly jerks up his chin. Stiles forces him back against the wall, shoving under his jaw, and then bites him firmly on the throat. He’s caught mid-whine, shaking, and then Stiles pulls out. Rubs cheeks with him, purring, till Chris nudges weakly back, and then grabs him and tugs him forward, and presses his face down onto one shoulder, hand sliding into the hair at the back of his head to hold him.

“Chris, you can’t do this shit,” Stiles says. He sounds so tired. “You can’t, okay, I can’t be—Dad’s _dead_ and I can’t just sit with you. You gotta—get up, damn it. Get the fuck up and eat something and then help me get your goddamn father.”

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Chris says, weeping into his alpha.

Stiles sucks in his breath and it sounds like the start of a snarl, and Chris instinctively braces himself. But then the fingers in his hair just start stroking him, gentle and slow, and Stiles rumbles instead.

“I’m not gonna lose anybody else,” he says. “I’m not gonna lose you. I’m not fucking—get up. You didn’t do it, your dad did, so get the fuck up and get him for me. Get up. You’re my beta, and I’m telling you, _get up._ ”

His hand slides down to Chris’ neck, then hooks under Chris’ arm and pulls. And Chris gets up.

Chris is swaying some, and has to put his hand back on the wall to keep from losing his balance. His cheek brushes some of Stiles’ hair and he turns his head, noses into it and whines and Stiles inhales again. Moves his hand back to Chris’ neck, squeezes it. Pulls their foreheads together, just before he lets go entirely and steps away.

“Scott and I are going to the funeral,” he says. He’s unnaturally steady. Voice, hands, heartbeat. “Erica’s got some sightings to look into. She was thinking you could go with her—you need to lie low anyway, FBI’s shown up and they want to ask you about Gerard and we need to keep them from you till the lawyers get a deal worked out. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Chris says. He doesn’t recognize his voice. It’s so rough and low he thinks it’s a groaning floorboard, and then he remembers the floor’s concrete. “Yeah. Alpha—”

Stiles puts his hands on either side of Chris’ face and holds him and kisses him hard. “We’re getting him _first_ ,” Stiles says, anger and determination rumbling his voice in equal parts. “You’re gonna find him for me. Find him, Chris.”

He kisses Chris again, longer, some kind of tremble going through him, and then he abruptly breaks it and spins around. Goes up the stairs while Chris’ heart is still thumping wildly.

Chris leans against the wall again, trying to catch his breath. He shakes his head, then presses his hand to the side of his face. He has to get over this, he thinks. Jesus. He was just—he just sat there. Here, and then back at the house while John—he stops himself.

“Allison?” he says.

“She’s holding up,” Erica says. Her hair’s pulled tightly back from her face, and she has on dark neutrals, plain conservative clothes. All that’s survived from her usual look is the slash of red lipstick, but her mouth’s such a thin, tight line that it makes her look like she’s cut it open and just smeared the blood around. “She’s sticking with Jackson, if the feds try and get her in, he says he’ll take her to his father’s place. She says go ahead, she’ll text you how it’s going here.”

Chris nods. Erica studies him for a moment, then holds her hand out. When he hooks his arm through hers instead, her mouth loosens.

“Well, you and me, Chris,” she says, letting him pull her towards the armory. “Let’s see what we can get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've gone to the whole "Scott is Stiles' moral guide" well a few times, but for me it also works in reverse. Stiles is one of the few people (Scott's mom and occasionally Allison being the others) who Scott will do bad things for. True, it's sort of the whole, I'll do it for them so they don't turn evil, deal, but he bends his morals for them more than for anyone else.


	11. Chapter 11

In the end, they can’t throw off the FBI enough to deal with Gerard by themselves, so they have to just settle for weakening Gerard enough to let the FBI take him. It all goes down in a small woods behind a shopping center complex: Chris and Erica track Gerard to a large concrete utilities pipe that opens out from a nearby hillside, and when the pack flush Gerard out of it, Stiles shoots him with the tagging potion. Then they book it back to the hotel room where Lydia’s doing the other half of the spell, and in the morning they watch on TV as a sickly, very much human Gerard is packed into the back of a police car.

Then they go home.

Lydia gets right on pulling strings to get Gerard killed off in prison, but things move much slower when they have to work through law enforcement. They still have the investigation into John’s death to deal with, anyway, and Chris ends up suffering through a very irritating three-hour interview with the FBI to try and get that off their backs. He doesn’t know why it’s easier for them to buy that he was in a no-phones survivalist retreat up in Montana this whole time than to believe that he hates his father and would toss Gerard a lead weight if he was drowning, but that’s what Chris ends up having to go with. 

The rest of the pack go back to classes, and jobs, and their lives. All of them except for Stiles, who petitions for and is granted a leave of absence for the rest of the school year. He’s a semester ahead of schedule anyway, so he should have no problem graduating with the rest of them, but…a couple days into his leave, he packs up his things and Allison drives him over and he moves in with Chris, while Scott and Isaac move back to the pack rental.

Lydia and Jackson are pretty much living out of Chris’ downstairs guest room anyway, busy as they are with helping to manage all the legal and other bullshit the pack’s involved in, but Stiles isn’t there for that. Sure, he pitches in, and he still makes the calls and has the insights and generally sets the strategy, but he does it all with a very detached, very calm air that sets Chris’ teeth on edge. He’s not really there. Even when he’s curling up around Chris at night, shaking Chris out of nightmares and then talking him down, he’s not there.

Chris is on the verge of calling Scott up and asking the man to help him wrangle Stiles when Stiles calls _him_ , asking for a ride from the office where the FBI’s set up. They’re finally winding down the investigation, accepting the whole drug smuggling ring theory and tying it all back to Claudia’s death, but they wanted one last interview before they start letting Stiles back into what’s left of his house.

Their lawyer isn’t thrilled to see Chris pull up—the FBI really doesn’t think much of their story for why Chris and Allison are friendly with the Stilinskis—but Stiles just shoulders past her and throws himself into shotgun. “God, get me out of here,” he mutters.

They get out of the parking lot and Chris is about to turn home when Stiles shifts in his seat.

“Cemetery,” he mutters.

Chris looks at him sharply. He doesn’t look back, and they’ve got a car waiting to turn behind them, and finally Chris just pulls out and heads that way. 

They park just outside the front gate and Chris puts his hand on the door, but Stiles doesn’t move an inch. Just keeps staring out the windshield, slouched in the mourning suit that the lawyer convinced him to put on. He looks strange like that, lean and angular in an ageless way, like a photo instead of a person.

So Chris doesn’t move either. It’s not the best weather out, cloudy with the occasional spurt of drizzling, and the lot’s pretty much empty besides them. Chris…tries to find something to say, but he just doesn’t…even if he had something, he doesn’t feel like he has the right to say it. He’s not going to fall apart again, not going to lay that on Stiles, but at the end of the day, he could have done better. Should have.

“Hey,” Stiles says abruptly. His claws click against the window, and then he pushes back from that, twisting in his seat. He squeezes between the two front seats and gets into the back—Chris only ever puts up the backseat these days if he’s expecting non-were passengers—and then he turns on his heels, looking at Chris. “You want to come here?”

It’s not an order. He says it like a kid, floating and unsure, yanking his tie over his head.

Chris locks the doors and then goes back to join Stiles. As soon as he’s within range, Stiles reaches out and grips his arms, and pulls him down to kneel by his alpha. He hits a little roughly and has to put his hand down to catch himself, and then that hand’s taking most of his weight as Stiles jerks roughly at his coat and then his shirt, pulling them off. Claws scratch over his back and catch in his skin and he hisses, and then, seeing Stiles’ face, makes a low, short, inquiring noise.

Stiles rumbles back at him but it’s hollow and distracted. His alpha shoves at his hip and then his shoulder, maneuvering him onto his belly, and then climbs over Chris before he’s all the way down. He instinctively pushes back up, trying for as much contact as possible, but Stiles grabs his hips.

“Look, just—if you’re going to, just—just shut up. Shut up and don’t move. Okay?” Stiles says.

He gives Chris a couple seconds, and when Chris doesn’t move, he goes back to stripping off Chris’ clothes. Doesn’t really pay attention to where they go, just dropping them as soon as they’re off, so most of them end up under Chris. They’re not much of a cushion and the floor’s hard and chilly when Stiles pushes him down against it, folding his arms under him, hauling his knees out and apart. Stiles is still mostly dressed; his shirt-tails are out, tickling at Chris’ buttocks, but when Chris bends himself up, he’s grinding into buttons and fabric.

Stiles flexes his fingers against Chris’ hips, warning, and Chris bites back a placating whine as he makes himself settle on the floor. He feels a little better when Stiles tucks his head over Chris’ shoulder, but it’s not a nuzzle. Not really, just a couple perfunctory cheek rubs and then Stiles is puffing against Chris’ throat, pulling in Chris’ scent without laying down his own. And the heartbeat drumming into Chris’ back, it’s slow and turgid one moment, skipping wildly the next.

Chris doesn’t think he’s going to get hurt—it doesn’t even cross his mind—but his alpha just smells so—wrong. Sour, stale, like something that’s been crammed up in the dark for ages. It makes him want to turn around, pull Stiles down and wrap around him, press and kiss and lick all over till the smell is gone, but that’s not what Stiles asked for.

Cool fingers work his buttocks apart and the way they touch him, distant and mechanical, it doesn’t stir his cock at all. But it touches some buried, old instinct in him, not sex but just _touch_ , and he starts shifting just a little. Just getting himself down, moving his elbows and knees out some more, spreading himself wider as Stiles lies down on top of him. Getting out as much of his body as he can, offering up his warmth, his bulk. A soft cock nestles up against his ass, rough palms fit over his shoulders and then Stiles moves his head to lie against the back of Chris’ neck. Then in the dip between his shoulderblades.

He shivers violently and Chris can’t help the purr he lets out in response, trying to soothe and ask without giving offense. Stiles clears his throat, and the start of some noise comes out, but it’s raw, too jagged for a rumble or even a snarl, and then he shivers again. Clutches at Chris, breathing in harshly, and he starts crying.

Stiles cries very quietly, barely moving. His tears are stinging-hot when they first hit Chris’ back, but they quickly cool, sluicing down the spine and then dripping off over Chris’ ribs, till they feel like so much ice-water. Once in a while Stiles moves his arm, and his sleeve wipes some of it off, but he’s not doing that on purpose; he’s shifting closer to Chris, trying to bury himself in Chris’ back as he stifles sobs and hiccups and gasps.

Chris can’t—he can’t just—he doesn’t move but he purrs. As soft as he can at first, and then louder, stronger, as Stiles keeps crying and doesn’t try to stop him. He purrs and purrs, till his throat is dry as hell and twice as burning, till his lips are beginning to crack from the breath sucking the moisture out of them, and very, very slowly, Stiles starts to purr back. Just little pulses, choking them out in between his sobs, but they get longer, closer together. They merge at the ends, turn into a broken rumble.

Then Stiles abruptly stops. He lifts his head, coughing a little, and then drops his forehead against Chris’ back again.

“I miss them,” he says. “I tried, Chris, I tried so hard, and I wanted to—I wanted them to see, and—and I can’t—I can’t—”

“Alpha,” Chris starts. And ends, because—there’s nothing else anyway. Everything’s in that word. “Alpha. _Alpha_.”

Stiles jerks like he’s getting off, and then he’s down on Chris, pressing so hard that Chris can barely breathe. He makes a horrible, twisting noise, his whole body turning against Chris with it, and then he goes slack and quiet.

His hand slides off Chris’ shoulder and hits the floor, then slides a few inches so that it’s lying right by Chris’ face. Chris noses towards it, hesitates, and then leans his cheek against the wrist. When he feels the fingertips curl slightly into his face, he shifts so that his mouth is on the palm, and he kisses that, then lets his mouth rest open against it.

Stiles takes a deep, shuddering breath. Shifts against Chris, breathes again, then moves his hand out from under Chris’ face. He puts it on Chris’ nape, pauses, and then uses it to grip as he holds Chris down and bites the side of Chris’ neck.

“Yeah, pack,” he says. He’s still tired, but he smells less…sour. Just tired and hurt now, and not so close to dead. “Pack. Mine.”

“Stiles,” Chris tries. He whimpers a little as Stiles licks gently over the bite, then pushes his hand out to grab Stiles’ other hand. “Alpha. Come—we’ll go home. Let me take you home.”

For a long moment Stiles is still and unresponsive, just his breath easing over Chris’ neck. Then he sighs and he pulls himself up, off of Chris. He folds himself up against the wall, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Okay,” he says.

* * *

Stiles is better after that, but he’s still not right. He doesn’t go back to classes, but he does start going back to campus for the odd social event. He and Chris start having sex again, and sometimes when Chris wakes up and Stiles has him bundled into the sheets, mouth on his nape and hands slowly working between his legs, he thinks Stiles might even forget about things for a few minutes.

But he’s not right. He starts taking more out of town trips, especially after they get news Gerard’s finally gotten it in prison—Chris claims the body, much as he hates affirming he’s next-of-kin, so they can do every damn anti-resurrection ritual they know of and then burn it and scatter the ashes over three counties—and other packs start treating Stiles and Scott like equals. Then, thanks to Scott’s damn habit of wanting to be in everybody’s business, like white knights on call. Normally Stiles would rein that in but he actually pushes for more interventionist work.

It raises their pack’s profile, sure, and makes certain things easier for them. And Chris would be a hypocrite if he shut down everybody else’s do-gooding, considering how many pro bono jobs he still does, just because some things shouldn’t get to screw around with people. But that’s not what it’s about for Stiles.

“He’s been looking up transferring to another college,” Lydia tells Chris and Scott one day. The three of them have taken to meeting the same day of the week that Chris had used to check in with John on. “They’re all on the East Coast.”

Scott doesn’t look surprised, just resigned. “Yeah, I know. He said something about that, and he’s been making me do more of the face-to-faces, so the other alphas will call me first. And Erica told me the other day that he took her into the preserve, and walked her around all the stuff in there.”

He’s done that with Chris too, and passed over some of the financial passwords for his inheritance, too. “Are you going to try and talk him out of it?” Chris asks.

Lydia frowns, but Scott just puts his head in his hands and then shakes it. “Kind of hard to, when he’s flinching every time something about his dad comes up. You know, Isaac brought in some chili subs the other day, the ones from that cop diner, not on purpose, it just was on his way back from class and Stiles—”

“—came to my house and didn’t eat the whole night, just bugged me about eating,” Chris finishes. He rubs his face too. “Yeah.”

“I think he needs a break,” Scott says after a long silence. “When—when my mom died, it hurt to see all her things too, but not…I don’t know. I just don’t know, I’m not him, I don’t know how to help with this. And I don’t know what else to do.”

“Well, he can’t leave for at least two weeks,” Lydia says crisply. “The lawyers are still wrapping up—”

“I think he knows that,” Chris says sharply. And then he sees how she’s twisting off one of her fake nails, a drop of blood welling up from a torn cuticle, and he sighs and tries not to get all stuck up in the guilt again. “Just—well, that enough time for us?”

For some reason, Scott and Lydia both look intently at him. He frowns and waits for them to ask, but they never do. Lydia just rubs the bridge of her nose, while Scott drags himself up into a semi-straight posture.

“We’ll be ready for it,” he says, looking at Chris. “We have to be. If he needs a break, then I’m going to give him a break.”

He’s changed too, Chris thinks, looking at Scott. He’s better about circling back with the rest of them, but also, he’s better about accepting that what people need might not be what he hopes they do. And he’s better about fitting into his own skin, about being an alpha now and not the beta he was. He should be able to handle it.

“He and I had a good talk the other day,” Allison says when Chris mentions it. She’s started coming home more often, usually for dinner and then an hour or so on the back porch before she heads back to campus, and Chris tries to get Stiles to go to bed. “We’re still not anywhere near dating, Dad, so don’t freak out, but…I think I know where we’ve been getting stuck.”

“That’s good,” Chris says. And when she looks sideways at him, he slings his arm over her shoulders. “I mean it. Look, my personal feelings aside, I want you to get that resolved. You’re both young, you’ve got too many years ahead of you to get hung up like this. And however it comes out, you know I want you to be happy.”

“Yeah, Dad.” She leans into him for a few seconds, pursing her lips. Then she looks up at him, and her hand sneaks around to twist in the back of his coat. “So you’re gonna remember that too, right?” she says. “Because I’m okay. I’m really okay. I might not…have everything the way I want it here, but it’s still pretty good, and I’ve got the pack backing me up. I’m gonna be okay, whatever you do.”

Chris winces.

“Still with the sneaking around, Dad,” Allison says, mock-scolding. Then she moves her hand to wrap around him, and she gives him a good, hard squeeze. “I guess we’re just always going to be that family, a little. But just—keep me updated, okay?”

“I don’t know—” Chris starts, and then he sighs. “Yeah. So new bargain?”

“Yes, I’ll call and text too,” Allison says, rolling her eyes. “And if I don’t, Erica will. So we’re good?”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “We’re…we’re okay, anyway.”

* * *

Stiles sits the whole pack down and explains what he’s doing before he leaves. He’s already prepped all of them for it one way or the other, so there’s not a lot of surprise, just some questions that Lydia swiftly shoots down with an updated contingency manual. There _are_ a lot of wistful looks, and Jackson, of all people, starts getting sort of raspy over it, but generally it goes well.

The pack settles down for a movie in Chris’ living room, and Chris is refilling the dip bowl when Stiles finds him in the kitchen. “So, I’m not gonna be that asshole who totally drops off the grid,” Stiles starts.

“I wasn’t going to be that beta who deliberately crosses his alpha for selfish reasons,” Chris says dryly. He looks at the olives he’s got half-folded into the dip, then puts the spoon down and looks over at his alpha. “Listen, I can—I want you to know, I’m free. Allison’s joint with me now, on the house and the accounts and anything that matters, and I can take the consulting anywhere. But I’m not going to make you deal with me. If you—if you don’t want to.”

Stiles is quiet and unreadable for a few seconds, just his throat moving as he swallows. Then he jerks forward. He lifts his hand, aims it at a couple different places and then finally settles on scratching at his hair as he stares at Chris, frustrated and sad and God, _wanting_ , all at once.

“Why are you so—” he says, and then he grabs Chris. Shoves them up against the island, breathes into Chris’ neck, and then pulls back. His eyes are wet. “I’m not leaving you, not leaving pack. I’m just—I just need to—”

“I know,” Chris says. And he does. When Victoria died—when they finally were sure she was gone—he took whatever he had left of her and packed it into a storage unit, and hasn’t looked in there since. She’d already been gone for a year, so day-to-day life had pushed those things aside anyway, but he just couldn’t deal with knowing they were still in the house. He spent two days rooting them all out from every nook and cranny, and then, after they were shipped off, he’d packed Allison off to stay with friends and had gotten drunk alone in the house. “I know. And I know you don’t want—”

“I’m gonna come back. I’m gonna visit,” Stiles says, rough and low, his nails digging into the back of Chris’ neck. “ _You’re_ gonna visit. You’re gonna track me down anyway, you’re gonna come find me, that’s what you do—”

But he’s not going to ask Chris to go with him. Chris hadn’t really thought he would, so it’s not a sharp pain, but it still hurts. Dull, deep, persistent. That’s the thing: Stiles makes him keep the doors open, even when he knows.

“I just…for a while,” Stiles tells him. “So I can get things figured out. Just—I’m sorry, I know you want to, and I want you. I want you, I _love_ you, you know, I just realized—”

Chris sucks in his breath and Stiles’ voice breaks a little harder, goes a little rougher, as he pulls hard at Chris’ neck. His nails, blunt and human, they bleed Chris of a few drops, and then he loosens up and just presses his palm over Chris’ spine as Chris ducks his head, angles his cheek along Stiles’ jaw and whines softly.

“—but I can’t go if I can’t—I need you here. I need you to stay, keep an eye out till I get back. I’m sorry, Chris, please—”

“I know, I know. I know, okay, I’ll stay, I’ll stay.” Chris rubs his nose into Stiles’ hair, cheek, the side of Stiles’ jaw. He tries to imprint the man’s smell and warmth on himself, even as he’s steeling up to pull back. “I’ll keep it going for you. Alpha, I’ll do it, I’ll be here.”

Stiles goes quiet. With words, at least; he’s still making noises, guttural, fierce noises as he grips Chris’ hip and nape, makes promises with his weight, his hold. The way he presses into Chris like he’s not just leaving his scent, but he’s also leaving that _fit_ , the way they just match now, just right. 

But he’s leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So cats purr for a lot of reasons besides that they're happy, including for comforting purposes. I'm swiping some of that here.


	12. Chapter 12

They adjust. They have to. They’re pack, they’ve got territory to manage. Crime investigations to waylay, classes to attend, keggers to crash and omegas to kick out.

Allison asks if Chris wants her to move back, once Stiles is across the country at Miskatonic University, and he tells her no, he’d rather she stay with her friends and keep her life going. He’s out a lot of the time anyway, shouldering more of the pack representation load since Scott’s inexperienced and Erica is in the weeds with her degree, trying to wrap a semester early so she has more time for pack business; she doesn’t have the patience but she’s got the connections, she’s been seeing these other packs since birth. So Allison stays up at the pack rental.

Funnily enough, people start showing up in Chris’ house anyway. He actually doesn’t think it’s an intentional thing, but Lydia prefers his place to the pack rental for meetings, and Scott doesn’t seem to mind the extra commute back to the dog training center. And where those two go now, so go the rest of them.

“That’s just because you’re all pack dad now. If you were fighting for point, then it’d get interesting,” Erica observes to him on patrol one night. “Don’t get me wrong, Scott’s stepped up and I’m glad Boyd and I don’t have to launch the revolution after all, but he’s still got the weakest killer instinct I’ve ever seen in an alpha.”

“Which isn’t a bad thing when we’re working on peace treaties, not bar brawls,” Chris mutters.

Erica laughs. “Don’t be like that, daddy, it’s not like anybody really got hurt. Or offended—we borns just like to say hi like that, you know.”

“Hah,” Chris says, deadpan.

They go a couple more yards, not scaring out anything above some birds and one raccoon, and then Erica turns to him. “It’s not your fault he had to go,” she says. “You get that, right?”

Chris blinks. Then shrugs when she raises her brows at him. “I know I tried,” he says. He pauses, then shrugs again. “You said handle it. I’m not sure I—”

“Oh, my God, you tragic morons,” Erica mutters. “I meant, just help him. His parents got murdered, Chris, it’s not like anybody can just wave a magic stick around and fix that. Or a sex stick. Life would be a lot easier if that were true.”

“Easier when they were trying to murder you first, too,” Chris says under his breath. He sometimes wishes—no, not really, he really doesn’t want to waste any more time on his father. On the thing that used to be his father. But sometimes he wonders if he could have offered more than just logistics support if he _had_ had parents he wanted to grieve over. His mother died when he was too young, and when they got the news about Gerard’s death, he didn’t feel anything but relief.

“Easier when they run off, and you just get a couple news clippings and a box of claws a few years later,” Erica says. She doesn’t look at him and she’s a little rigid about that, but her stride stays loose and confident. “You know, mine weren’t bad or anything. Kind of strict, but we were good up till they decided they couldn’t wait for Stiles to grow up. And then it was just—like we never knew each other. And I guess I had a couple years to get used to being without them. I mean—not like I wanted them dead, but you can’t get to know people who dump you.”

“No, I hear what you’re saying,” Chris says. He kicks a stick off his boot that’s gotten tangled in the laces, then looks at her. “And you know he’s not dumping us.”

She laughs, tucking her head in, and then cuts in to bump shoulders. “He’s already coming back, you know,” she says. “The day he moved out, that’s the day he started coming back. And you’re doing good keeping that in his head, Chris. You just better keep reminding him.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, and he pulls his head up, makes himself focus on the woods ahead of them. She’s right, he needs to stop dwelling on what he’s done wrong, and just get things done now. He promised Stiles.

They all take turns going and visiting. Except for Scott, who never says anything but who earns a fair bit of credit with Chris for seeing the obvious and not leaving the town without any alpha at all. He and Stiles have to catch up when Stiles comes to see them.

But the rest of them, they go to Stiles. First at his new college, and then, once he’s graduated and is driving around the country, wherever he’s stopped for the time being. They usually make the trip in twos and threes, but once he starts getting within driving distance, it’s generally Chris plus whoever is free. And Chris admits he purposefully leaves himself open—benefit of running your own consultancy, and dealing with supernatural stuff that’s irregular-hours-friendly—but again, he doesn’t think the pack is consciously planning it like that. Things just shake out that way.

“Everybody’s got stuff going on back home, I can get it,” Stiles says on one visit, curling around Chris. “I want it to be like that. You can’t put your shit on hold just because your alpha’s up in Canada hunting wendigo.”

It’s Chris and Isaac this time, but Isaac’s wandered off to bar crawl with the local pack. And that, Chris is pretty sure is intentional, the whole making sure Chris gets at least half a day alone with Stiles. Not that he’s about to call them on it or anything. He doesn’t go up expecting sex, but…

He shifts under Stiles, just so he can feel his alpha’s cock move in him, and then sighs as Stiles snorts and then nuzzles up the back of his neck. He’s got scratches on his hips that are going to make driving home a bitch, on top of the pleasant stretched ache in his ass, and then on top of _that_ , Stiles cornered him in the shower and sucked him off till he collapsed on the floor. And then bit up and down the insides of his thighs till he was hard and whimpering again, and now Stiles has his hands curled possessively over those bites, digging in as soon as they start healing. And it hurts but it’s good hurt, good and alive, and Chris doesn’t get it nearly enough, and he does his best but God, he’s not a saint, he’d never be able to give this up.

“…what you’ve got sometimes,” Stiles is saying. He trails little kisses along Chris’ spine, till he gets to his bites on Chris’ back, and then he wraps his mouth over one and nurses it, shaking small, begging noises out of Chris. His hips flex and his cock pushes up, getting hard again, and then he lifts his head to rest his chin on Chris’ shoulder. “You’re not just sitting around, right? I mean, I poke Allison, but she just says you’re good and if I really wanna be a nag, I’ll come back and get your guns out of her closet.”

“Then she and Isaac shouldn’t flood the basement when they’re trying to scare Scott’s professor. They make me pack dad, I’m gonna call them out like a goddamn dad,” Chris mumbles. He whimpers again as Stiles draws a claw lightly over his inner thigh, then tries to think through the nice, warm haze that’s settled over him. “No, ‘m fine. I’m doing things, it’s just…had a life. Had a couple, you know, did a lot, I don’t need to build up shit just to build shit. I got as much as I want of that, and…it can wait, Stiles. I’d rather see you.”

Stiles goes still, and for a second Chris thinks he’s overstepped—but then Stiles sighs. Lays his cheek against Chris’ shoulderblade, so Chris can feel his lashes as he shuts his eyes. “Yeah, I know. I miss everybody too. I miss _you_ , man, I miss you like I didn’t even…and Chris, listen, I know you’ve smelled it sometimes, sorry, that was just fucking shitty of me, but you know anybody else—”

“I don’t care. Makes you happy for a little bit, I can hold my nose,” Chris says. And he really doesn’t. He doesn’t know if that’s post-turning instinct or not, and frankly, he doesn’t want to know. He’s just—like he just said, he has what he wants, for once, and even if he doesn’t have it most of the time, he’s still not about to drop that much for none of the time.

Anyway. He knows when he has Stiles, he has all of his alpha. He knows what that’s worth, to werewolves. And he knows he never deserved close to that much in the first place.

“Yeah, I know. You’re such a werewolf that way,” Stiles says, warm and affectionate. Then he nuzzles at Chris again, his head working over Chris’ back till he’s tickling at Chris’ throat with his mouth. “But I don’t bite them, Chris. They’re not mine, they’re not you, they’re not pack. Not my beta, not my perfect hunter wolf, mine, God, you’re still hunting for me, aren’t you—”

He pulls himself up over Chris, lipping and clutching, working himself around, over and in Chris as Chris stretches out, feeling that haze go molten, go hot and sparking and Jesus, but he won’t push, he won’t, he wants his alpha to just have whatever he wants, but Chris can’t help _wishing_.

“Please,” he moans, rocking back into Stiles. “Please, more, please, _harder_ , make it last—when I get home, please, still want, make me feel it—”

Stiles snarls at him for an answer, snarls and plants claws in Chris’ hips, and has him. They leave bloodstains on the bed, going down into the mattress and they’ll have to sneak it out later and buy a new one, and Chris has scratches so deep on his hips that Stiles insists on stitching them, even if that’s just for a day at most.

“I can’t send my betas home bleeding,” Stiles says, sighing, wrapping his hands over the bandages. “That just looks bad, you know?”

“Nobody’s going to look,” Chris says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I flash it.”

“But you want to, don’t you?” Stiles says. And he pushes in, rubs noses with Chris and purrs and shit, but Chris’ knees are going to need bandages at this rate. “You do, you want to, you want them to know. Well, you go home, Chris. Go home and…I’m getting there. I’ll get there soon, I promise.”

Chris doesn’t breathe for a second, just hanging in the other man’s grip. He hears the words but he almost doesn’t want to understand them, just in case that that’s too much, that that will make them disappear.

“I promise,” Stiles says, kissing him. “I’m gonna come home. I know you’re waiting, and I’m not gonna leave you hanging. You’re too good, Chris, you deserve that.”

And Chris groans, groans and holds onto his alpha, and God, he doesn’t just wish, he _hopes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last section was so depressing that I decided I'd put up two chapters today (this one is shorter than usual, anyway).
> 
> Miskatonic University is from the Cthulhu Mythos.


	13. Chapter 13

So Stiles does come home. And as is typical for their pack, everything is fine and dandy and then it blows up just in time for Stiles’ arrival, and they’re running around like madmen dealing with more FBI and the Alpha pack and goddamned rogue hunters, Jesus, how many trigger-happy dumbasses are there in this country? Chris could’ve sworn they’ve killed off enough to make a point about how great a career choice hunting is when you _don’t know anything_.

Anyway. It works out. They run out the new crop of hunters, the FBI goes away and Stiles gets the remains of his house back for the second goddamned time, and the Alpha pack is deader than dead. 

Also, they end up with two new betas.

For some reason, Derek Hale ends up being the missing piece that gets Scott and Allison to stop dancing around each other and to start giving Chris’ fatherly instincts heart attacks again. But he’s also surprisingly good for Scott: he’s bright under the bad temper, and he has a way of being blunt that cuts through Scott’s unrealistic ideals to the actual reasonably good points buried in them. And he’s not afraid of Allison, even once he sees what she can really do, with or without weapons. If anything, he seems to love the idea that she can whip his ass without breaking a sweat.

And his uncle. Well, Peter’s happily sleeping with Stiles, after some of the most ridiculous posturing Chris has seen since Kate was still trying to talk herself out of a statutory rape charge when nobody’s birth certificate was in doubt. He’s a good lawyer and God knows they need more help there, and he’s more than willing to judiciously break laws, too. He’s clever and ruthless, but at the same time he’s much better about creative, effective nonviolent solutions than either Scott or Derek.

He’s also the most precious little shit, werewolf or human, that Chris has ever met.

“I really don’t think I’m asking for that much,” Peter says, shaking his head over the plans.

Chris looks at him. Then at the blueprints for the new house they’re building on the Stilinski property—they finally have everything of any value excavated from it, and the remainder isn’t worth salvaging—and then at Peter again. “It’s a custom espresso machine that’s going to cost a couple grand just to rework the plumbing set-up. And you’re the _only_ person who drinks fancy coffee.”

“I understand that Lydia enjoys a properly-made cup,” Peter insists.

“Okay, let me say that a different way,” Chris says. “Lydia drinks flat whites and cappuccinos, which can be made with a standard countertop machine using standard home plumbing hook-ups. You’re the only one who drinks shit involving thirty different steps, _none_ of which any of us is going to do for you, and which requires a separate water heater.”

Peter sighs heavily. “Because I honestly do not know how you people have the same enhanced sense of smell I do, and still drink subpar coffee. I had to start roasting my own beans, for…never mind. You also completely ignored the very detailed proposal I submitted describing how this machine will also provide for precisely-regulated taps that are critical for advanced potions brewing.”

“Which you do in the basement, not in the kitchen where betas looking for midnight snacks can grab it and spend the rest of the night covered in polka dots and puking,” Chris says, exasperated. “What do you think this is, Peter, some luxury retreat for werewolves?”

“Well, I _thought_ we were trying to provide our alpha with a lovely, safe, supportive environment that will cater to the pack while also satisfying his needs and wants,” Peter says snidely. He pulls the espresso machine flyer off the table, with a little indignant huff, and then tosses down a new bunch of papers in front of Chris. “Fine. Let’s talk about the permit situation.”

Chris doesn’t even look at the papers. “Okay. So you’re not trying to piss me off so much as just chase me out before Stiles gets home.”

Peter’s control has gotten a lot better, but he still has plenty of tells. Like the little way his head hitches, or how his voice gets especially smarmy. “I don’t know what you mean, Chris. It’s your house, and anyway, pack shares, or so I’m told.”

“Uh-huh, right, and that’s why you smell like you jerked off in his closet,” Chris says. He flicks at the papers, smelling Peter’s nerves rising, and then goes around the table. Waits as Peter does a little backstep before deciding to stick it out with Chris, before pushing up right against him, trapping him against the table.

Peter’s eyes go wide and Chris can hear the little whimper trying to crawl out of Peter’s throat. When Chris leans over and sniffs at Peter’s neck, right above that prissy expensive tie of his, Peter makes a noise that’s not even a whimper, it’s so tiny and soft.

“Well, I stand corrected,” Chris says. “You fucked yourself on your fingers, didn’t you? I can smell the lube, Peter.”

“And so what if I did?” Peter says, blinking hard. He straightens up slightly. He’s still got his shoulders hunched, but he jerks his chin up and it’s not a throat-baring move. “It’s been a long week, I’ve been _very_ busy on the pack’s behalf, and I know Stiles has, too. So what if I just make things a little more…accessible?”

Chris snorts. “So you plugged yourself too? Let me guess, you rubbed that all over his clothes first, then shoved it in.”

Before the Hales, Chris had forgotten how jumpy new-bittens are. He and Allison had been the most recent, and they’d gone in with hunter training so they hadn’t taken too long to adjust. But Peter, he’s just twitching under his bravado, shuffling his feet and fighting back those sorry little noises. He smells shaky, he does, and Chris can’t help but lean in and inhale.

“So you can smell that on me too, can’t you?” Peter says. He’s still trying, Chris will give him that, even if his voice is wavering more than Scott in front of three dogs when he’s only got two pet carriers. “Smell him? Smell him where I rubbed myself?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, right against Peter’s neck, and he can feel his own breath rippling back at him as Peter shivers it off. “Oh, yeah, I smell him on you.”

“Like that, do you?” Peter says. He manages to twitch himself _forward_ , his tie brushing Chris’ shirt. “Or don’t you? Prefer to replace it with something else?”

“Nah, you smell good like that,” Chris says. Snorts when Peter sucks in his breath, clearly expecting a different answer. “He smells good on you. And I know where you’re going, Hale, you’ve been fucking around with it enough. Waving your ass around after he’s fucked it, making me smell him in your hole, like you think that’s going to make me mad. But you know what? I’m not. I’d keep his smell on you. Keep it, shove your face in his laundry and make you rub off in it, just get you smelling more like him because _fuck_ , I like that. I want that, want everything to smell like that, be like that, be his.”

Peter’s hands snap to the table edge and then make the wood groan, almost covering up the little dazed sounds he’s making. His eyes are blown and his nostrils are flared as he starts sniffing too, and Chris didn’t exactly wash off after he blew Stiles at lunch. Of course, it’s been hours since, and you’d have to be really close, and really focused, to still smell that on his mouth. But he thinks Peter is there.

“Shame we can’t do that,” Chris adds. He waits for the disappointment, and then the confused light to come into Peter’s eyes. “Because, Peter, you’re—”

“—kind of freaking out, are we teasing the baby again?” Stiles says, wrapping his arms around Chris from behind. He both pulls Chris away from Peter—who starts sharply, then whimpers a little as he exhales, looking rapidly between them—and into him, fingers firmly wrapped around Chris’ wrists, teeth grazing Chris’ nape a little as he talks. “What did I tell you?”

Chris shrugs, and gets himself a reprimanding nip, and yeah, enjoys watching Peter look annoyed and envious and also, just a little interested as Chris stretches his throat back for Stiles, properly submitting this time. “Be nice till he makes up his mind about what the hell he wants?” Chris says. “Again?”

“If Peter wants to be a tease, well, that’s his thing,” Stiles says, still in mock-scolding mode. He shifts Chris back so he can sling his arm over Chris’ shoulder, still hooking Chris close enough to rub cheeks, and then reaches out to grip Peter by the back of the neck. “But no pressure on the group sex stuff.”

Peter’s dipping his head almost before Stiles gets his fingers all the way on his neck, and Stiles barely tugs before Peter’s sliding up against the other side of him, purring and rubbing his throat over Stiles’ mouth. So…keeping their respective relationships with Stiles out of each other’s sight didn’t work much past the first week, but then, Chris is nosing behind Stiles’ ear himself, just enjoying the sound of his alpha rumbling happily, smelling like the start of a really good round of sex, and—

—Peter moans roughly, his hands flailing again, and one of them flaps around and hits Chris in the belly. Not hard enough for Chris to even brush it off, but Peter jerks out of Stiles’ grip like he’s been shocked and then falls back against the table.

Chris actually…minds the idea of getting fucked by Stiles with Peter there less than he would’ve expected. It helps that Peter as a fellow beta is less about the slick suits and maddeningly untouchable legal machinations, and a lot more about looking flustered and embarrassed, his hair mussed, his eyes wide and nervous, with a nice red bite rising over his snowy-white shirt-collar. And yeah, smelling _completely_ of Stiles.

Unfortunately, Peter’s not really on the same page, whatever bullshit he comes up with to drive Chris up the wall. All Chris does is sigh and Peter jumps again, and sticks his claws right through the permit paperwork.

“Also, I’m pretty sure I said if we were gonna go that way, we need to pull a Scott and sit down and talk about it in a nice, calm, neutral setting, so we can set boundaries and whatever and not just keep destroying Chris’ stuff,” Stiles says, also sighing. He tugs Chris over, nuzzling apologetically at Chris’ jaw and throat, and then lets go. “So—”

“I’ll go get the tape,” Chris says. And yeah, gives the papers an extra glance, so Peter flushes more.

Twitchy Peter _is_ fun, and Chris tries to do good sometimes but he doesn’t think he’d call himself a good person. Also, with the number of times Peter’s gotten him worked up and then he has to put it on hold till Stiles finds him, he thinks he deserves a couple cheap shots.

“I think he wants to talk about it, he’s just working out how,” Stiles says later, once Chris has been sucked and fucked, and is too boneless to be annoyed. “Which, you know Peter, requires scheming. And have you talked to Erica lately? Lydia told me she’s absolutely not backing any more of my relationship crap, she’s too busy making money for us.”

Chris grunts into Stiles’ arm. Then drags his head out of that, when Stiles moves from kneading his ass to fingering his hole, which is still dripping come from the last round. “Erica says Peter hasn’t asked her anything. Think he’s still scared of her. But he’s been borrowing a lot of books on werewolf biology.”

“I hope this doesn’t end in male pregnancy,” Stiles says. Then laughs, cupping Chris’ buttock, and leans down for a kiss.

Or three, or four with tongue and hands moving up Chris’ thighs, and they get pretty heavy before Stiles rolls his head back. Chris immediately pulls off, feeling a little uncomfortable to be lying over Stiles, even if Stiles has him firmly by the back of the neck, and makes an inquiring huff.

“So you’re into him?” Stiles says. He scoots back against the headboard so he can look down at Chris. “Aside from the whole, yeah, I know, he basically smells like my personal sex tape a lot of the time. And being fun to poke. And making those little noises, you know, the ones where you know his mind’s getting all blown and he totally _wants_ to go with it, he really does, but he’s such a player he can’t just lie back, you gotta _talk_ him into it—”

Halfway through that Stiles starts rambling, rambling and squeezing Chris’ nape and rubbing his other hand over Chris’ shoulderblade so the bites there sting, and Chris goes with his alpha’s musing tone, purring and rubbing himself belly-down against Stiles’ cock. And then Stiles makes an annoyed sound and rolls them over, and plants both hands on Chris’ thighs as he looks at Chris.

“Shit, got distracted,” he says. “Anyway. Back to the question. You like him?”

“I like parts of him,” Chris mutters, still half-preoccupied with the sticky, warm streaks he’s got freshly painted on his belly. He sniffs and yeah, it’s just precome and damn it, he wants actual come on him. He wiggles a little, testing Stiles’ grip, and then whines when Stiles just rolls his eyes and strokes his thumbs down Chris’ inner thighs, and doesn’t get his cock anywhere near Chris. “Goddamn it…okay, yeah, I’m…I’m starting to. He’s a lot easier to deal with than I remember.”

Stiles grins. Bends over, just enough to lip at Chris’ mouth, and then he moves back. He still looks like he’s more mulling this over than moving to do anything about it. “I’m not sure if we should run him through a deodorant shower to check,” he says. He cocks his head. “I guess we’d have to do something about all the stuff he says too. Maybe we could make him take a work call, something really boring and not at all made for innuendo. ‘cause I don’t think a gag would do anything but be blowing out your nose.”

Chris maybe flushes some. He can’t see himself but he feels a little tight around the face; even when Stiles was on the road, he was always interested in sussing out each and every one of Chris’ buttons, for good and bad purposes, and as used to it as Chris is, as much as he does truly love it, he still gets a little thrown when Stiles just…tosses one of them out there, like it’s no big deal keeping it in mind.

“I just really want to know it’s not me. Well, okay, look, werewolf reality means there’s always gonna be alpha-beta vibes going on in the background, but it’s just, you know, I _could_ have you to myself forever,” Stiles says. He leans over again, puffing at Chris’ throat as Chris lays that out for him. Drops to rest his smile against Chris’ chest, just for a second, before moving back down Chris, licking and scenting as he goes. His palms slide up Chris’ legs, spreading them, and then he bobs over Chris’ reviving cock to—God, he’s licking himself out of Chris. “Could fucking keep you just for me, Chris, mine, my beta who went and hunted himself an alpha, Jesus, you have no _idea_ what a turn-on that was.”

“I—I kind of—I think I got—” Chris gets out, clawing at the bed, and then he gives up on words and just whines, pushing his ass down onto Stiles’ tongue.

“And I know, you’re all, I got you, alpha, I know what you need and if it’s not me, I still want you to have it. And you’re so, so good about it, Chris, so good, I never ever had to worry,” Stiles croons. He noses up behind Chris’ balls, flicking his tongue against the back, and then works back down, that hot, thick tongue of his stabbing repeatedly into Chris’ hole, shaking out a whimper each time. “But that’s me, that’s not me _and_ Peter, and that’s different, I know that’s different. And I want you to get me how you want me, that’s how it works, Chris. You get it too.”

He rears back, _bites_ Chris right on the taut ridge of a thigh muscle, just sinks his teeth in and then worries the spot, his hand gripping Chris’ cock, and Chris knows he makes Stiles work to hold him, keep him from tearing his leg open on those teeth. He knows but he doesn’t care, he’s just absolutely coming apart under his alpha. Just knowing Stiles will hold him where he needs it.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, still shocky, bundled back up with his head against Stiles’ shoulder, his ass firmly planted on Stiles’ cock. “And you wonder why we stick with you.”

“I thought it was the candy bowl at pack meetings,” Stiles says. He kisses around the edges of Chris’ mouth, one hand pressing some gauze to that bite on Chris’ thigh. Tracing a finger over it, both to keep it stuck on the slight bleed and to make Chris shiver. “And kicking ass with magic.”

“And comin’ after us, same as we do you,” Chris says. He twists his head and catches Stiles’ mouth for a second, then lets his head loll so Stiles can lap at his throat. “No, I know, I—I know I have you just for me. And I’m a little curious, at least, about having you with him, too, and shouldn’t you be talking to him? Pretty sure you already smelled it on me.”

Stiles snorts, breath warm over the wet trail he’s leaving on Chris’ skin. “Just ‘cause I smell it doesn’t mean it’s what you really think, don’t make me run you through the primer again, Chris,” he says. “And trust me, I’m talking to him. Like tons. Like I kind of had to stop, because he can’t be super-slick lawyer man if he’s walking bowlegged into the office. Even if his desk is really honestly the perfect height for screwing him.”

Chris can imagine that. For all that Peter and he…well, honestly, get off on tweaking each other, he does also just get off on the guy, period. And it’s not just the idea of watching Stiles wipe out Peter’s snitty, sniffy little airs of superiority, and turning him into just another bellydown beta, begging their alpha for it.

Although yeah, okay, Chris does get a little heat in his gut, imagining that. Thinking about _both_ of them under Stiles, both getting it, seeing just how goddamn amazing their alpha is and offering everything they’ve got, not in exchange but in adoration, because there’s no exchange. Even if they weren’t fucking, Stiles would handle them and that’s just so much of why Chris loves the man. And his alpha deserves more than just him anyway. Him and Peter and—

“I can hear your heartbeat, damn, Chris, when’s the last time you let me catch you like that?” Stiles says, snickering. He starts petting Chris’ other thigh, and there are plenty of bites on it, shallower but no less ready to prickle and itch when Stiles touches them, reminds Chris who marked him in the first place. “You’re thinking about it. You guys aren’t that different, you know, he does that too. Well, you get kind of worried, he gets defensive, but you both start drifting and thinking about it and then you get all shivery and _hot_ and man, of course I’m gonna have to fuck you when you’re like that.”

It’s just, Chris thinks, bracing himself for Stiles to start moving in him, it’s just that Peter does get it. Whatever stupid little espresso machine requests Peter brings to the table, he also gets what they have here. He turned and he picked himself up and he sees exactly what Chris does: something that they damn well _can’t_ let go. And…yeah, that’s a button for Chris.

“And he’s so, so pretty, right after you’ve scared him,” Stiles coos at Chris. Fucking down slow but deep, making sure Chris feels his cock the whole way. “He gets into it, Chris, he likes being the newbie, the asshole puppy that gets grabbed up by the scruff and carried off. He likes that, likes alpha having him and big brother beta keeping him down till alpha comes around again, just, _shit_ , can you think that? Can you see that?”

Yeah, Chris can see that. Yeah, _fuck_ , can he see that.

* * *

Chris can also see that Peter’s an attractive man. He just keeps opening his mouth, is the problem.

“There has to be a better way to handle this,” Peter bitches, stalking around so his ripped shirt flaps, and then slapping irritably at the scraps. “This is ridiculous. I’m not made of money, and anyway, even if I was, my tailor physically cannot keep _up_ with this rate of destruction.”

“Maybe you should just buy cheaper clothes,” Chris says.

Peter looks at him with an expression of complete and uncomprehending disgust. “I have _standards_. Even in casual wear.”

“And I told you that sometimes this shit gets messy, even if we heal. If a chupacabra was easy to take down, they wouldn’t call a werewolf to do it,” Chris says. He finishes wrenching out the fangs—both proof of death for the client, and a very useful magic-working ingredient—and then gets up to bag them and wipe off his hands. “You know, Derek doesn’t complain _nearly_ this much.”

“That’s because Derek made a deal with the devil at some point to always get his clothes torn halfway through the night. I’d complain about _that_ , except that it’s absurdly effective whenever we need a witness to back up his alibi,” Peter snorts. “Also, because you’re the one who complains when he goes with you. Something about needing to leave enough behind for identification?”

Chris sighs, and has to give Peter that one. Derek has potential. Or would, if his dedication to reining in his temper didn’t vary directly with how likely it was that he’d get scolded before either Scott or Allison got him into bed. Allison’s been promising to work on that, but Chris suspects, when he cares to think about it, that she’s got a little problem in the motivation department, too.

“And it’s too dark for a decent photo, I can’t even use this to bribe Erica to stay out of my underwear drawer,” Peter mutters, bending over. He picks through Chris’ bag, then holds out his hand, a selection of Chris’ gutting tools fanned out in it. “Very well, let’s just get this over with, and then we can go home and I can say I now understand your operations and we’ll just get on renewing your hunting license.”

They’re even the appropriate tools, and sometimes Peter irritates Chris because _he_ could step up right now. He’s smart and quick enough, and if he stopped being so damn fussy about the wrong thing, he could keep up. And Chris is more than sure that Peter doesn’t stop on purpose.

“Why _are_ you out here, anyway?” Chris says. “And don’t give me some bullshit about pack bonding, or getting to know me. I think we’d both be a lot happier if we did that indoors, over some legal whatever.”

“I’m here, Chris, because I would like to understand who I’m going to be living with,” Peter says in very careful, very precise tones. He hunches down on the other side of the body, well clear of any splatter, and watches Chris work it over to look more like a mangy coyote. “I don’t think it’s bullshit to note that we’ll be in far too close quarters to keep pretending we aren’t moving towards…”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Please don’t toss in some buzzword.”

“I’m a lawyer, not a life coach,” Peter says, amused. “Fine. We’re obviously going to end up in bed at some point, and I’d prefer to make it a happy occasion, how about that?”

“I think we could do that without a complicated plan involving the girls and way too many bloodstains,” Chris mutters. “You realize that runes just make stuff resistant, right? It doesn’t actually make it repel the blood.”

Peter shifts like he’s going to come over, and then plops back with an exasperated sigh. “ _Why_ do you always act like I’m the obstacle? No, really, Chris, I’d like to know. Because actually, my devious plan, just like _last time_ , consists of asking knowledgeable people for advice. I’ve admittedly not seen much of how you operate, but I think your average stake-out involves more steps than that.”

Chris pulls his claws and his ribcage-spreader out of the carcass and shakes out a wet wipe, then starts cleaning them off. “Well, you are kind of cute when you’re being pissy, Stiles is right about that.”

He looks up and Peter stares at him, wide-eyed, and then huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “And you’re an asshole who looks like the poster child for older rough trade, and I _hate_ how attractive that is,” Peter mutters.

“See, we’re being nicer,” Chris says dryly. He looks the chupacabra over, adds a couple more slashes, and then starts putting his tools away. And raises his hand before Peter can break out the indignant sputtering again. “Okay, seriously, I think…I don’t really understand how you’re coming at this. You’ve been a werewolf what, all of two months? You should be over turning now, and you’re smart enough, you get that we don’t _have_ to follow instinct. There are plenty of bittens running around who just treat this like having extra-bloody impulse control issues.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. He starts to reply twice, then stops himself, and so Chris is just about ready to start walking back to the car when Peter finally clears his throat. “You don’t actually think I’m stupid enough to try and take him all for myself, do you?”

“Being stupid enough to do it, and wanting to, are two completely different things,” Chris says. “And as bad as my family was on you, I don’t think we’re the ones who made you an asshole, Peter.”

“Well, no, some things I _do_ do myself,” Peter says loftily. And then he grabs the second of Chris’ duffel bags, and slings it over his shoulder with a slight challenge of a nod. “But I make a good werewolf, if I do say so myself, and that says something about the kind of asshole I’ve turned out to be, doesn’t it?”

He swings in at Chris, then pulls out at the last minute, just skating the edge of too aggressive. Chris buries his snarl but does let his eyes flash at Peter, who tenses and then stumbles a little, in his expensive loafers when they’re walking around the California backwoods.

Peter corrects himself, then hefts the duffel strap over his shoulder. He’s eyeing Chris nervously for the next couple hundred yards, but as time goes on and Chris just occupies himself with tracking back to the car, Peter starts to arrow in again.

“It wouldn’t exactly be a hardship, from a certain view,” Peter drawls, his gaze drifting below Chris’ neck. Then he pulls his eyes back up and they’re a little more calculating than appreciative. But not…it’s not really the kind of calculation that puts Chris’ back up. Peter’s still too edgy for that. “And as for past bad blood, if Derek can look past that—”

Chris growls.

“—it’s happening, Chris, all over your soon-to-be transferred house. And if you really didn’t want it to, I’m not sure why you’re leaving your daughter all alone there,” Peter says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not leaving her _alone_ ,” Chris mutters. He has to will his shoulders relax, and his fangs to not drop. “She’s got her alpha there too, and…well, good fathers get out of their kids’ way, when they’re old enough. And Jesus, but I’m tired of walking in on it.”

Peter laughs, and he seems genuinely sympathetic. It’s kind of funny—which says some not entirely great things about Chris, that he has that reaction—but Peter does actually care about Derek, and a lot more than an uncle really would have to for a nephew, even a favorite. He wouldn’t smell so eager to get Derek’s bedroom activities relocated if he didn’t.

“Well, anyway. So I’m willing to try and see what your family’s put out besides bloodshed and mayhem, and you’ve said that you want to move forward, too,” Peter goes on. He hesitates, looking closely at Chris, and then he slides closer. Not to irritate, not when his head is properly down, his throat angled towards Chris but not ramming into Chris’ face. “Besides, you’re important to him. He’s said over and over how much you did, keeping the pack together while he was gone.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do,” Chris says slowly. “It’s not a one-way street. Alphas watch out for betas, betas back up alphas.”

“I’m more than aware of that,” Peter says. He’s a little tight, and it’s with nerves, not anger, judging by his smell. He takes a deep breath. “I’m _not_ going to be much use for a while, I also know that. But I fully intend to be, and…and you managed it with worse family history than we have, and crossing over from hunting, too. If you want to know my motivation, well, that’s it. I want to know how you did it.”

They’re coming up to the car. Chris automatically pauses and checks for any threats, with werewolf senses, with magic, and just with all his years of having people coming after him, and then motions them forward once he’s confirmed it’s clear. He notes, half-absently, how Peter follows the cues without hesitating.

“And I want him to have what he wants, Chris,” Peter adds. As Chris opens up the back of the car, he pulls the duffel off his shoulder—and then turns sharply, so that they’re facing each other. “He wants me, and you, and yes, he’d be happy just like that. But he wouldn’t _mind_ me _and_ you, and I think we could persuade him to want that, if we really tried. Don’t you?”

He steps too close and Chris grabs his shoulder. Peter’s scent spikes with alarm, but he doesn’t move, forward or back. And he’s kind of sucking his breath, when Chris leans right back, almost touching noses before dipping to sniff at his throat. Covered in Stiles’ scent, as usual.

“I think we’d be pretty fucking good, yeah,” Chris says. Jerks at Peter’s shoulder before Peter can get smug about that, whiffing just a hair from Peter’s throat. He can even smell the slight sweet of dried blood trapped just under the skin, just where a bite’s healing. “I think you even mean it. You’re not stupid, and you know you’re never going to have it this good again, Peter, you know that. Can smell it, taste it, _want_ it. But you know he made me this way, picked up what Gerard left and put it together, and you know him now, you know what kind of werewolf he makes. Don’t you?”

He snaps his teeth together, barely short of skin, and Peter starts, then laughs shakily. There’s more than a little whine in it, too. “Well, obviously, Chris. You never were this attractive as just a man under your father’s hand.”

“You weren’t really that tempting either,” Chris says. He squeezes Peter’s shoulder, getting that whine to come all the way out, and then steps back to dump the bags in the car. “Flashy lawyer, swinging his dick around. Nothing much under those suits.”

“I’m not wearing those so often these days,” Peter says. Still sounding a little breathless, leaning against the bumper and watching Chris strap the bags to the floor. “Have to save those for special occasions, if I want to have any paycheck left to add to the pack accounts. So, then, we’re…we’re…”

He’s too close, so he’s right in Chris’ face as Chris turns, and Chris makes him feel that. Pressing up to his hip, catching his wrists as he raises them, then bumping hard at Peter’s chin to keep that up, getting his own head under it.

“Yeah, I guess. Not that I’m going to start just messing around with you, Peter,” Chris says. The man’s outright whimpering now, straining his head up to show throat, and Chris breathes at that a couple times, then shoves off. “Alpha’s not here. Honestly, with all the research you’ve been doing, I would’ve thought you’d pick up on that.”

“Well, one, I don’t agree with your definition of ‘messing around,’” Peter rasps. The moment he’s released, he twitches well out of reach and then he grabs at his throat, fingering a couple bites for reassurance. He’s still sneaking looks at Chris, even as he catches his breath and starts sounding all snide again. “Two, I can read books and troll online forums till my eyes bleed, but that doesn’t tell me a damn thing about what Stiles appreciates. For that matter, even looking at your example, which, by the way, I had no idea you were so good with Powerpoint—”

“Shit,” Chris mutters. He shuts the car back. “I knew Lydia was lying when she said she deleted that file.”

“She wasn’t, actually,” Peter says as they get back in the car. He shuts his door and bends down to dig in the gym bag he’d brought with him, then pulls out a fresh shirt. “Erica, on the other hand, was _very_ helpful, what with the back-up copies and the entertaining anecdotes.”

Chris starts the car. “Just tell me you didn’t promise her video of whatever you’re about to suggest.”

“I’m not _incompetent_ , Chris, just learning,” Peter sniffs. “No, actually, I set her up with my niece Laura.”

“You mean dating?” Chris says, frowning. “Or that exorcism stuff Laura does?”

Peter swaps shirts, then bends over again to stuff his ruined one back in his bag. “I deliberately didn’t ask. All I know is, Laura is very excited and Erica will be out of town for a whole weekend. Which brings me to my _question_ …we attempted to date first, but circumstances intervened, and anyway, very little of that was relevant to actual courtship, and—”

“You realize I never finished that, right?” Chris says. When Peter looks blank, Chris sighs and slows the car so he doesn’t have to pay so much attention to not hitting trees. “Yeah, I got to the whole gifting part, but we got attacked and I never actually made him a gift. And I don’t think he really cares about customs like that. It was more for me, to get my meaning across, in ways he couldn’t just write off.”

Peter looks thoughtful, but surprisingly, doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. Instead he fires off a few about the chupacabra, and what wrap-up they’ve got with the client, and he and Chris actually have a fairly civil rest of the night.

Well, right up till they get back to Chris’ house. The new Stilinski house isn’t going to be remotely livable for a few more months, so Stiles is still staying with Chris, and of course that means Peter has more or less moved in, too. Stiles happens to be out at the moment, so Peter follows Chris from the garage into the house, and then through four different stops as Chris eats, checks in with other pack members who are around, grabs his laundry and then heads up to the bedroom.

“I said alpha’s not around,” Chris finally says, dropping the fresh sheets on the bed. “And you didn’t kill it, so you don’t get the master bath, house rules.”

Peter doesn’t even bother to look annoyed. “So we can do the gift,” he says, with that slightly distant expression both he and Stiles get when they’re mulling over an idea. “I actually think that works out perfectly with both of our goals. I want him to know I’m fully committed, and you’ll show off your skills in hunting and discerning his wants and delivering them, and also, affirm the relative hierarchy—”

“What?” Chris says.

“Gift,” Peter says, looking intently at Chris. “Me and you, for him.”

Several years of working through Stiles’ offbeat thinking has given Chris—well, it’s not like he follows how Stiles gets there so much as he’s got instincts about the landing spot, and so he thinks he’s got a good guess at what Peter means. “You are so full of yourself,” he says, blinking. “You’re a present all on your own, huh.”

Peter shrugs, though there’s a little appreciative glint for Chris catching on so quickly. “It’s about the meaning, Chris, it’s not about the—the actual market value. Although I’ll remind you that my current hourly rate is—”

“You know you sound like a bargain-bin deal, always talking about how your rates stack up, right?” Chris says, and yeah, grins when Peter huffs at him.

And then he thinks it over. He strips the old sheets from the bed, then leaves them wadded up on the floor since he’s still a little too dirty to be spreading the fresh ones. Steps out of his shoes and socks, and starts taking off his shirt.

“Okay,” he says. He uses the shirt to wipe at a couple blood and dirt smears on his face, then tosses that on top of the dirty sheets. “I’ll go check my supplies, see what I can dig up.”

Peter stops looking smug and starts looking wary. “Pardon?”

“You’re the gift, Peter, then I’m doing the wrapping,” Chris says. He takes off his belt and hangs it up in the closet, and then walks into the bathroom as he starts pulling off his jeans. “I’m not giving him a shitty job on that.”

“I—you know, I _was_ already thinking about that, and I think—” Peter immediately starts.

Chris shuts the door in his face. To be honest, he’s not completely sold on the idea. It does make sense, if they do it right. And he does think Peter genuinely wants to do it right. But whether Peter’s nerve holds up is a different question; the man usually does get around to facing up, but so far he’s always needed a couple of false starts before he can carry through. So, Chris thinks, if Peter’s still around when he’s done with his shower, they’ll talk about it. If not…

Well, Chris has always been willing to wait, and it’s paid off for him so far. And Stiles—Stiles is patient too. It’s why Chris _will_ try so hard to get him what he wants, and sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human-to-werewolf!Peter would totally use his new enhanced senses to up the yuppieness of his life. No, seriously, considering how sensitive wolves' noses are (and the show's tendency for cheap humor), you'd think that we'd get at least one comic shot of Scott or another bitten wincing at locker room smell or something.
> 
> To be clear--Chris will be moving in with Stiles once the new house is built, while Allison (and therefore Scott and Derek) gets the old Argent house. Because I may not have written it in, but Allison and Derek and Scott are having just as much sex as the Stiles trio, and there is such a thing as too much sharing.


	14. Chapter 14

Peter’s still there, sulking on the freshly-made bed, dirty laundry nowhere in sight, when Chris gets out of the bathroom. Of course, once he hears what Chris is suggesting, he has a little fit and then stalks off to go sulk in the living room—since Stiles is finally home—and Stiles must say something to him because bright and early the next morning, Peter’s waiting in the kitchen with coffee.

“All right, I see your point,” Peter says, in a very put-upon voice that doesn’t do much to hide the claws he’s nervously tapping against the counter. “And you do know him better.”

“I know he’s going to be able to smell _that_ ,” Chris says, hooking his chin at those claws.

Peter grimaces and pulls his hand off the counter. He’s hunching up. “That won’t happen when we’re actually…it won’t be an issue.”

“You’re sure?” Chris says. Then sighs into the coffee, when Peter blinks hard. “You’re pack, Peter, before you even get to what you’ve got with Stiles. I do take that seriously.”

“I know,” Peter says. He presses his lips together, then deliberately relaxes his shoulders. “I know, and I appreciate that more than you probably care to believe, and it won’t be an issue. I just—I may need a few days to…sit with this.”

“Well, Erica’s not leaving till Thursday, right?” Chris says. Then sighs as Peter relaxes even more, without having to force it. “You can offer your damn suggestions, you know. It’s not like I just thought about what he likes. Or what I think is going to bother you the most. I just don’t want to hear about your—”

“Perfectly rational appreciation for the finer things in life, yes, Chris, I remember,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “No, I know, and—and no, I think you actually did consider my part in this quite thoroughly. Which is…is new. And interesting. And I…just need a day or so. Like I said, it’s new to me.”

Chris drinks more coffee, watching Peter slowly flush, and he has to admit it’s pretty. And interesting, too; he does his best to take care of things, sure, but by the time he and Allison joined, the pack had the basics more or less down. Teenagers are a lot more flexible anyway, much more willing to just write off the world shifting under them as just another crappy day.

“Well, don’t tell me I broke your brain,” Chris finally says. “I don’t think I’m that good.”

“Hardly,” Peter snorts. He absently rubs at his neck, tugging his shirt-collar way past the collarbone; for somebody who’s so unused to this end of the ladder, he’s awfully fond of showing off his place. “I’ll get back to you when I have something, then?”

“Works for me,” Chris says. “Coffee’s good, by the way.”

And he’s actually about to add a thanks, he’s feeling so generous, but the way Peter suddenly grins is enough of a warning sign. “Oh, really?” Peter says. “So you _do_ see my point about the espresso—”

“Bye, Peter,” Chris says, walking out. With the coffee.

* * *

Derek catches Chris at a really awkward time. “Is that ribbon?” Derek says, frowning at the spools in Chris’ hands.

Chris bites back a swear and tosses his handful back into the bin, then shuts the closet. “Did you need some?”

“No.” Derek pauses, looking very uncomfortable, and then runs his hand over his face and back through his hair. “Okay. We’re leaving in a couple minutes for the fundraiser—”

“Pretty sure you were already supposed to be gone,” Chris mutters. “Scott’s going to be helpful and carry all the chairs again and get rich old women slipping him their numbers.”

“—and I just wanted to catch you for something first,” Derek says, eyes narrowing. “You’re not going to screw Peter up or anything, right?”

This was coming sooner or later, but for a second Chris can’t help agreeing with Peter about Derek’s timing. “I don’t want to hurt him,” Chris starts.

Derek snorts. “You’ve met him, come on.”

Chris raises his brows.

“Look, he’s a dick a lot of the time, but he’s still my uncle,” Derek says, as if Chris hadn’t even bothered with a reaction. “And this thing with Stiles he’s got, it’s…actually really good for him, and I never thought I would say that, but you’re at least not fucking that up, right?”

“I’m not going to try to,” Chris says after a second. “And if I do anyway, I’m going to do my damnedest to fix it. And it’s not just because Stiles is involved, Derek, it’s because neither of them deserve that. All right?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. He looks at Chris a little longer, then nods curtly. “Okay. Good.”

He starts to turn and Chris clears his throat, and Derek tenses a little before he looks back. Derek’s not nearly as skittish as Peter, but Chris has wiped the backyard with him enough times for even his bad attitude to understand which of them is the better fighter.

“You take care of my daughter, or I _will_ shoot you,” Chris says.

“You say that every single time we go out,” Derek mutters. “Does Scott get this?”

“Yes,” Chris says. He pushes past Derek, grinning to show his teeth as Derek grimaces, and then goes up the stairs. “Jesus, now get out of my house already.”

“Trust me, we’re gone,” Derek says. “I don’t like Peter _that_ much.”

So Derek hauls ass, and Chris goes back up to the bedroom, where he strips off and then gets on the bed next to Peter. He checks his phone, answers a couple texts from Lydia, and then picks his laptop up. “He’s a couple minutes late,” Chris says, opening up a half-done project budget. “And no, Peter, I am not handing you your phone. You said it was a work-free weekend, and I’m holding you to that.”

Peter glares at him.

Chris crunches a few numbers, and then pauses and pulls a stray piece of ribbon from underneath his leg. He looks at it, then at Peter, and then puts the laptop aside.

* * *

“Hey, honey, I’m ho—oh, fucking _Jesus_ ,” Stiles says. He stumbles mid-step and stabs his claws into the doorway to get his balance back.

“Hey,” Chris says, closing his laptop. He leans over and puts it on the dresser, then pulls his arms in but otherwise stays down on his belly and knees, looking up at his alpha.

Stiles blinks once, then, keeping his claws in the jamb, straightens up. “So…I thought Peter was blowing us off for some power dinner networking whatever?”

“Yeah, well, Peter changed his mind,” Chris says, just as Peter lets out a muffled, but very clearly desperate, whimper. “He’s been in meetings all week, I know you haven’t seen much of him.”

Stiles blinks again, and then he grins. It’s brilliant and gleeful and mad, and it’s got just enough fang showing that Chris feels a whimper rising in his own throat. He spreads his legs out, gets a little lower as Stiles comes over to the bed, then sighs as his alpha sets a hand on his nape, pressing his head into Stiles’ hip.

“Went and got him for me, huh,” Stiles says, voice already well into alpha bass range. He rubs circles over the back of Chris’ neck as he leans over the bed, getting a better look. “Hey, Peter.”

Peter whines and hitches towards Stiles, as much as he can. He’s pretty restricted, all wrapped up in magic-enhanced silk ribbons, strong enough to hold a were. So long as no sharp edges get involved, and Chris was careful to keep the ribbons away from Peter’s claws, which are showing as he bends and twists and blindly turns his head to follow Stiles’ voice.

“Aww, poor thing,” Stiles croons. He puts his hand down on the bed near Peter’s shoulder and Peter immediately shifts towards it, but then he stoops and huffs at Peter’s throat and Peter jerks back, then moans, rocking in place under that. “Poor little beta, just lost track of time again, I guess? And then Chris here got you good, didn’t he?”

He sifts his fingers into Peter’s hair, pulling gently at it, encouraging Peter to tilt his head back with the pull, and then he laughs. Flicks at the loops at the back of Peter’s neck, then leans even further over, ignoring Peter’s urgent whine to look down Peter’s spine.

“You really thought of everything,” he says to Chris, his fingers tightening on Chris’ neck. When Chris whines, Stiles rumbles a reassurance, and then roughly pulls Chris over, across the bed, nearly into Peter. Bundles him up, his wrists pinned to his chest by one of Stiles’ hands, while Stiles starts laying a trail of sharp bites down the side of his neck. “Jesus, Chris, he’s pretty.”

Peter is. There’s red ribbon crisscrossing across his eyes and over his mouth, hiding the metal bar that’s keeping his fangs from slicing the ribbons, then worked in diamonds down his throat to end in a big, rosette bow at the back. Broader, gold-edged red ribbon binds his arms to his sides, with two floppy bows tied over each nipple, and then wraps his crossed wrists at the small of his back. The same ribbon also winds around his ankles and up his calves, with a rosette bow that Chris deliberately placed to tickle his feet and keep him moving. 

Lastly, red and gold ribbons cross over his waist and then strap down the sides of his hips, framing his ass before the gold comes up to tightly lace around his balls and very hard, very flushed cock, a small bow crowning its head. The red swings back between his buttocks, holding in the plug with a triple-layered bow that Stiles plays with as he sucks at Chris’ neck.

Chris groans and tugs at his hands, not because he wants to get free, but because he can’t get his legs out from under him and he’s too doubled over to really fit back against Stiles. He gets himself a pointed nip and he reluctantly stills himself, biting back whimpers as Stiles feels Peter up, pulling and toying with ribbons so Peter mewls and twists and humps himself, trying to press into the touches.

“Got you, he got you, aww, and it’s okay, it’s okay,” Stiles says, purring, rubbing his hand over Peter’s back as Peter lets out a choked, begging noise. “It’s okay, alpha’s here. I’m not gonna leave you like this, I’m not gonna be that mean—”

His hand slides around front to one of the nipple bows. Chris tenses and he feels Stiles tilt his head questioningly in his direction, just a second before Peter abruptly arches, whimpering more loudly, a clear _help help_ note in his voice.

Stiles immediately responds, pushing Chris down onto the bed and then crawling over him, putting a knee on his back to keep him down as Stiles purrs at Peter, purrs and bends over to start licking at Peter’s jaw. Peter subsides, still whining, and then cries out through his gag as Stiles pulls at the bow again.

“What’d you do?” Stiles says, half-laughing, half-curious. He glances under himself at Chris, who doesn’t have to work too hard to just limit himself to small, apology-begging noises, and then he laughs again and turns back to Peter. “Awww, no, Peter, it’s okay, alpha’s gonna see, see what he did, aww, was he mean to you?”

Hitching, making little catching noises, Peter nods weakly. Then he starts struggling as Stiles picks at the bow, straining hard enough so that Chris can see faint red lines appearing in the skin under the ribbons. He keeps it up till Stiles finally bites him on the throat, and then he goes limp, mewling helplessly.

Stiles nuzzles him over the bitten spot, moving so that Chris can feel his alpha’s erection against his own ass and Chris switches to just plain begging noises, rubbing back against it. He watches the ribbons start to loosen around Peter’s head—Stiles bit through a couple strands when he bit Peter—and then drags his eyes down in time to see Stiles’ throat vibrate around a thick, hungry growl.

The ribbon comes away from Peter’s chest, showing the little metal clamp over a swollen, reddened nipple. Peter moans, curving himself up, pushing the clamp at Stiles, who’s still growling as he takes it off with his mouth. He pins Peter as the other man sobs and bucks, as the nipple goes even redder, so red it makes the ribbon look washed-out, before it heals up and shrinks and turns dusky brown.

“Hurt you, did he?” Stiles croons. And when Peter nods, Stiles purrs in sympathy before abruptly pushing in and closing his mouth over the nipple. He sucks and works at it as Peter writhes against the bed, and when he finally pulls away, the nipple stays inflamed. “Awww, Peter, but you like that, you like it when I do it, you like your alpha sucking your little nips, don’t you?”

The gag’s unwound enough for Peter to spit out the bar and beg with words as Stiles shifts back, pushes Chris from where he’s worked himself up and firmly pins him with clawed fingers gripping his hips. “Alpha, please,” Peter gasps. He stretches his head after Stiles, alternating between angling for kisses and trying to rub the ribbon off his eyes. “Please, please, he didn’t—”

“Didn’t suck them?” Stiles says. He looks between Peter and Chris for a second, the haze clearing a little, showing a very sharp awareness behind it, and then he grins. And he’s not just into it, not just wanting to fuck them. There’s affection in that grin too, something deep and appreciative and just making the lust burning on top all the hotter. He knows _exactly_ what they’re doing. “Chris.”

“Alpha?” Chris grunts. Then he shudders and moans, kneading the bed as Stiles grinds up against his ass. He barely registers that Stiles is pulling his hands back behind him, reaching out for something. “Alpha, Stiles, please, I just—just wanted you—”

“I know, I know, and you’re so good, Chris,” Stiles tells him, licking up his nape. Tying his wrists with something, with some of the ribbon that’s come off Peter. Pushing him up and pressing his face into Peter’s chest as Stiles unravels the other nipple bow. “So good, bringing me what I want. But you’re so mean, you know. I told you, be _nice_ —”

He punctuates that with a sudden bite to Chris’ shoulder that makes Chris moan, opening his mouth wide with it, and when Chris closes that, his lips close around a nipple. Peter hisses, then rubs his chest hard into Chris’ mouth, almost smothering him while Stiles moves away, keeping a hand on Chris’ hip, and then returns and pushes lubed fingers up between Chris’ buttocks.

“Be nice, that’s all I want, be nice, play _nice_ ,” Stiles says, rolling them together. He reaches around and pulls at the ribbons tying up Peter’s ass, still opening Chris up on his other hand, while the two of them arch and press into each other under him. “You’re gonna do that if I have to make you. Which is what you’re asking for anyway, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” one of them, both of them, groans.

Stiles laughs. Laughs and then wraps over them, purring, licking and biting and rubbing all over them. “Okay,” he says. “Just remember, you asked for it.”

* * *

He fucks Chris while Chris sucks on Peter’s nipples. Stops whenever those start looking like they’re healing, stops and then pushes Chris down to lick at Peter’s cock while he works the nipples back to tender rawness with his own mouth. Peter begs them to stop, to just fuck him, and then, when Stiles finally pulls Chris away from him, he stops begging and starts making little aching noises.

Chris is half out of it, his hips feeling half-hinged from Stiles fucking him through an orgasm and straight back to hard, no pause in between, but he registers it enough to rasp a response, pack-here-pack-company. He senses Stiles pause, and then Stiles is rumbling his approval, rubbing his hands over Chris’ thighs and licking his way across Chris’ neck. Stiles slides out of Chris, sticking two fingers immediately into Chris’ hole as Chris clenches down and then whines at the absence.

He gives Chris a long, messy kiss, shifting them over, and then moves away but pushes a warm, weakly-moving body over Chris. Smells like alpha, like alpha and sex and pack and Chris starts moaning even before Peter lifts his head. It’s like the best of full moon nights, when they’re running together and they’re all kind of edging over the lines, but even better because it’s not just Chris smelling the rest of them going at it around him. Peter’s _on_ him, on him and lipping at his mouth and Peter tastes like Stiles was just in there too, and he knows Peter’s trying to eat out his mouth for that and it just goes back and forth between them. Till Stiles pulls Peter down, doing something, and even then, the whole way Peter is sniffing and sucking down Chris’ body, dragging so he doesn’t miss an inch of scenting.

Their alpha fucks Peter this time, plug tossed aside and rolling off the bed as Peter moans and writhes in the remaining ribbons, his head bumping up between Chris’ legs. His mouth grazes at Chris’ balls, closes briefly around them, and then gets hauled up onto Chris’ softened cock. He sucks at that a little, enough so Chris starts to pull at the ribbon wrapped around his wrists, and then he noses hungrily back down, working up till he’s tonguing Stiles’ come out of Chris’ hole.

“Good, Peter, good,” Stiles is panting, crooning while he sucks and bites his way across Peter’s back. “Good beta, yeah, he likes that, he loves that. Likes being clean, he’s a pro like that, works clean, _so_ clean but sometimes he gets all my scent off and I hate that, hate it when he doesn’t smell right. He should smell like us, right, so lick him out, clean it out so I can fill him up again. And I’ll get you to come all over his belly, all over so he smells like you, too, smells like _pack_ —”

Peter’s moaning directly into Chris’ ass. Mouth sealed over Chris’ hole, forcing the air in, and then he pops off his lips and Chris jerks and then whimpers like he’s been slapped.

“—got to thank you, you know, he’s kind of mean but he’s such a good beta, such a good hunter, bringing me the nice things,” Stiles says. “And you’re a good little beta too, you’re my pretty lawyer wolf, making the connections, making pack, you’re so slick and nothing sticks to you, nothing but _me_ , me and you’re gonna help me make Chris stick, right? Keep him good and scented and _fucked_ so he doesn’t think we forgot him—”

Chris doesn’t really understand what Stiles is saying, way too far gone for it, but the tone, instinct, something gets through and he pulls his head back as far as it’ll go, pushes up his belly, trying to show his alpha he’s here, he’s willing, he’s more than willing and he comes like that, everything so taut already that his climax just _rips_ him to pieces.

He half-passes out. Feels himself being moved around, feels his alpha moving around. Hears Peter crying out, hears him gasping and then whining, soft surrendering noises that slowly seep to rambling, fevered words.

“Yes, alpha, anything, yes, keep him,” Peter groans into Chris’ thigh. His head gets shoved up a few more inches, till he’s more on Chris’ belly, and then he shudders as Stiles does something to him. “Anything, anything, just keep me, please—”

“Oh, never was gonna drop you, come on,” Stiles says. Even he’s raspy, panting and rough as he climbs up next to Peter. His breath spills over Chris’ thigh and Chris twitches and then Stiles bites it, bites it and then laves over the spot as Chris shivers. “Even before Chris served you up all nice and wrapped with a pretty bow on top, _Jesus_. I should make you wear that all the time, just that, a big red bow on your neck.”

Peter manages a protesting noise, and then he quiets to the soft sounds again. He _is_ still wearing the bow on his neck, Chris can feel it. The loops tickle over Chris’ belly and he shifts and Stiles bites his thigh again. Then again, working up one and then the other inside stretches, even as he’s groaning and trying to spread out for his alpha.

Then something touches a bite. It’s tentative, going away when he flinches, but then it comes back hard, a warm wet thing sucking at him and Chris whines and Stiles purrs his way up over Chris, holding Peter’s head to Chris’ thigh with one hand as he curls the other behind Chris’ neck, pulling Chris up for a kiss.

“And you, you think I need _presents_ when I’ve got you,” Stiles says. He kisses Chris again, rubbing his thumb over Chris’ lower lip, and then moves down to nip a fresh line down Chris’ throat while Peter worries the bites on Chris’ thighs. “Keep sucking, Peter. He loves that, loves it as much as you like your pretty nips all pink and hurting. Loves it when I bite up his legs, like anybody’s gonna see it when he’s dressed but if they do, fuck, if they do they’re gonna see he’s already _mine_ , he’s already fucking taken and bitten and mine. You’re both mine, _both_.”

“Alpha,” Chris whimpers.

Stiles rubs his cheek over Chris’ neck, gently stirring the bites there to throbbing heat. He feels down Chris with his hand, then wraps it over Chris’ cock and just that, push of hand and cheek and Chris comes. And Stiles pets him as he shakes down, whining, pets him and smears up his own come over his belly, and then pulls Peter up to lick it off as he hauls Peter’s hips over, pushes his head between Peter’s buttocks and cleans Peter out same as Peter did to Chris. Then he starts fucking Peter on his fingers, so Peter mewls and mindlessly nuzzles up Chris’ chest and throat.

“This is gonna be so great,” Stiles says. He laughs a little incredulously, like he still can’t get why they’d be here in his bed, even with Peter desperately riding his hand, with Chris blindly twisting over to kiss and rub into Peter. “Oh, my God, you guys have no idea. But it’s gonna be. Trust me, I love you way too much for it to be bad.”

And then he spreads them out, and has them all over again.

* * *

Chris is used to marathon rounds of sex at this point—hazards of their lives, they don’t get to go home every night to a nice, relaxing fuck, so when they do get the time, they make up for it—but even by their standards, this one was pretty damn insane. He’s not even sure he still has feet.

“You’ve got feet,” Stiles murmurs, patting one of them. “Drink your water.”

Grunting, Chris heaves his head up, and just manages to send the empty bottle rolling past Stiles. Then he slumps over again. He’s on his belly, ribbon scraps all over the place including stuck _to_ him, and even if he had the energy, he can’t close his legs because his inside thighs are so marked up. Least his hands aren’t still tied, so he can just let his arms flop out to either side of his head.

Peter’s not really looking much better. He’s curled up on his side with his head bumping Chris’ side, occasionally making a pained noise when Stiles pets him too close to the bites on his throat and shoulders and upper back. The way the bed dips encourages him to keep his arms close, but then he brushes a nipple—which just make Chris think _cherry_ whenever he gets a look at them—and jerks his arms out and mewls till Stiles licks his nape.

Stiles finally sighs and throws his arm over Peter, and holds Peter’s wrists so Peter can’t pull his arms in. “Good?” he says.

“God, yes,” Peter groans. He settles into the new position, then whimpers as Stiles shifts against him. “Alp—Stiles, please, I can’t—”

“Calm down, I’m just getting _me_ some water,” Stiles says. He bites off the top and chugs about a third of it, and then lies back down behind Peter. His hair brushes Chris’ and then does it again, and then he snickers and taps a shivering Chris with the bottom of the bottle. “And you, stop it, seriously, I’m not gonna be the alpha who fucks his betas to death.”

“Sorry,” Chris mutters into the bed. He wills himself to stop hiking his ass up, then grimaces as his inner thighs sting again. “Working on it.”

“So, okay, we’re done with the courting stuff now, right?” Stiles says. He pauses to press his head against Chris, just reassuring this time, no tease, and Chris sees his thumb rub over Peter’s wrists too. “Because I don’t know, I _thought_ I was pretty clear with the textbook claiming behavior, but you guys are just…not listening or something.”

Peter shrugs. Though Chris can see his face, and he’s not nearly that nonchalant. “Well, it wasn’t about just making sure with you, alpha.”

Stiles pauses, and then he sits up. He drinks the rest of the water, tosses the bottle away, and then lies back down. His free hand cups Chris’ buttock, well clear of any bites, while he breathes against the back of Peter’s head.

“Yeah, I got that,” he says, more quietly. “That was…that was nice.”

“Good,” Chris says. He purrs absently, as Stiles starts to knead his buttock, and then tugs at a clammy spot on the sheets under him. “Just…we’re moving in and everything, seemed like a good idea to take care of that.”

Stiles snorts. Then pulls at Peter’s wrists, stretching them out as Peter tries to curl up again. “Don’t make me go get the ribbons,” he warns Peter, who mock-cringes and then purrs for real as Stiles kisses his nape. “It was _very_ nice, and your alpha is very happy with both of you, and just…damn. It’s a good thing we sprang for the folding gun racks. We’re gonna need that extra space in the basement, we gotta upgrade the couch to something we can all fit on.”

Both Chris and Peter shiver, but then Peter makes an indignant noise. “So Chris gets his James Bond racks that disappear into the wall, and the pack gets their home entertainment center, but I can’t have a—”

“You can have the goddamn espresso machine if it goes in the basement,” Chris grunts. He feels a little less annoyed when Stiles lightly strokes two fingers up between his buttocks. “I’m just not fucking rerouting all of the fucking plumbing wards for your stupid coffee, Peter.”

“You love my coffee,” Peter sniffs. “You drank that cup faster than I’ve ever seen you drink that revolting—”

Stiles nips Peter’s throat and squeezes Chris’ ass, and they both shut up. He half-sits up again, looking at them, and then rolls his eyes as he lies down. “I’m fucked out and I wanna enjoy it, don’t make me pull rank to make you shut up. The basement’s where the fun is at anyway, honestly.”

Peter sighs. “Yes, alpha.”

“Ordered the stupid thing a week ago anyway,” Chris mutters. “Shut up, Peter, I _did_ read your note on the potions. I just had to check where Stiles was putting his workspace.”

“And I hadn’t made up my mind up yet, but Chris got me to make a call and see how it works out when you all work together?” Stiles says. Then he makes an annoyed noise. “Oh, man, I’m sounding like Scott. Somebody shut me up before it gets worse.”

Well. He’s their alpha, after all, and that did kind of sound like an order. Chris drags himself around, and Peter twists over, and Stiles grins and reaches out for both of them.


	15. Epilogue

Technically, Chris should be out in the preserve helping to shove a body in the crematory. He’s on patrol, and he also was kind of responsible for it.

“No, you weren’t, you totally did all the due diligence and you warned Lyds that he has a rep for double-crossing, she’s the one who decided to go anyway and just shoot first,” Stiles says, sucking up the side of Chris’ throat. “Now come on, call and say you’re busy.”

Chris whimpers instead. Sitting on his alpha’s cock in the back of his car, which is parked across the preserve from where Erica and Lydia and the body are. His phone’s lying on the floor beside him, buzzing periodically with new texts, but every time he even glances at it, Stiles tightens his grip on Chris’ arms, which he’s holding mostly behind Chris’ back.

He’s got his knees up too, pushed in front of Chris’ thighs to splay them, keeping Chris nice and open, weight centered directly on the hard cock filling him up. He’s making plenty of room for Peter, who’s still half-naked from whatever he and Stiles were doing before Chris got back to the car, and who’s now happily laving his way up and down Chris’ bitten-up thighs. Peter’s even got a fucking red bow on his neck—rosette’s not as tight as the ones Chris ties, so the loops droop back, tickling and teasing over freshly-licked skin. Chris squirms from that, from Peter’s mouth, from _Stiles’_ mouth now working at the spot behind his ear, and he’s just fucking himself on Stiles’ cock at this point, little, weak, hopelessly inadequate jerks of his hips while Stiles whispers at him to stop being so _good_ already.

“Your turn, whatever, Chris, everybody ditches once in a while,” Stiles is saying. He hikes his knees up, forcing Chris to bow, pressing Chris’ leg firmly against Peter’s tongue, and then snickers as Chris’ whimpers drop into mewling territory. “Oh, shit, I love getting that sound out of you. And come on, Chris, they’re covered, they can handle this one, they just want somebody else to get dirty for them.”

“Besides, you were saying it was a slow night out. You were _saying_ you’d probably come in early, and we _were_ counting on it,” Peter says. He’s downright gleeful, the way he plays off their alpha, all innocently helpful tone and knowing glances, and then he twists his head and takes a long lick at the side of Chris’ cock.

Chris arches roughly, till Stiles has to loosen the grip on his arms or end up dislocating his shoulders, and then he slumps back, shaking, as Stiles rumbles soothingly at him. Stiles switches to holding his wrists with one hand so he can reach around and lightly cuff Peter, who meekly goes back to Chris’ thighs instead, with a little shiver that he lets drag his tongue over a particularly deep bite.

This time when Chris arches, Stiles nuzzles his throat and makes shushing noises, then curves his free hand around and just wraps it around Chris’ cock. He bites Chris on the throat at the same time, cutting off Chris’ buck into those firm fingers, and then nuzzles Chris some more. “Come on, come on, you’re mine now, Chris, you were that before but now I’m all courted and everything, and I took the gift and that means you get to ask now. But you gotta ask, Chris, so come on. Ask me.”

He doesn’t make it a command, he’s licking at Chris’ throat, not nipping. He’s _asking_ , and God, but that does it more than a flat-out order would have. “Alpha,” Chris says, half-blind, dizzy with it as Stiles holds him. “Alpha, please—”

“Yes?” Stiles says. 

Down below, Peter’s eased up on the sucking and is just flicking his tongue-tip at each bite he comes across. Chris whines again, so Stiles lets go of his cock and grabs the back of Peter’s neck instead, and then pulls Peter’s mouth forward. His cock is still feeling the warmth of Stiles’ fingers when Peter swallows it down, that fucking bow flopping in time as Peter’s head bobs.

“Please,” Chris says thickly. “Please—tell them—tell them to fuck off.”

Stiles laughs. Laughs and presses up behind him, releasing Chris’ wrists to just wrap both arms around Chris. He holds Chris for a couple seconds that way, gently rocking his cock up into Chris’ ass as Peter sucks Chris off, and then unwraps one arm to grab Chris’ phone.

“I’m gonna say I had something come up and need you more,” Stiles says as he starts texting. “I don’t want Lydia too pissed off. But seriously, no point in mating up with an alpha if you don’t pull rank once in a while, is there?”

Chris doesn’t answer, because Chris is a little busy having his mind ruined. But even if he were capable of thinking, he wouldn’t disagree.

“There, done,” Stiles says, dropping Chris’ phone. He twists back and puts his hands on Chris’ sides, straightening Chris up a bit from his post-coital slump, and then tilts his head so Chris’ head goes straight back onto his shoulder. “Okay, so…where was I?”

Chris twists around with what strength he’s got left and brushes his lips against Stiles’ jaw. “Alpha,” he murmurs. “Mine, right?”

Stiles pauses, and then purrs approvingly as he tucks Chris’ head against his neck, slides his hands down Chris’ body. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s how it works. Yours too. And baby makes—”

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” Peter says, sliding up to meet Stiles’ hands. He stops when Stiles grabs the back of his neck again, then whines into Chris’ belly as he and Stiles start moving Chris’ slack body between them, working it on Stiles’ stiff cock. “And get this damned bow off.”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says. “You really want that, Peter? Really?”

And he does something and Peter stops complaining, and starts making soft, wanting noises. And the two of them keep sliding around Chris, and pushing him with them, and even a werewolf can’t get it up again that quick. But till he does, Chris is pretty happy to just lie there and take them as-is. For once, he thinks, he might deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You buy that?" Lydia asks.
> 
> Erica rolls her eyes. "Are you kidding me? They're totally holed up somewhere having sex. And good on Stiles, anyway, Chris gets so picky about disposal procedure."
> 
> Lydia looks at her.
> 
> "Oh, put on the gloves and bag your shoes already," Erica says, picking up an arm. "I have a date in an hour, I don't want to smell like dead asshole anymore than you do."
> 
> "I thought you were meeting Laura," Lydia says.
> 
> Erica pauses. "Good point," she says, dropping the arm and pulling out her phone. "I'll get her over, make it a girls' night."


	16. Post-fic: Scott, Derek and Allison

Contrary to what a lot of people think (Peter), Derek doesn’t have any illusions about how bad his problems are. Or how much of it he can blame on what’s happened to him (Laura, Mom) versus how much is just him (tons of people besides Peter, but him too). The thing about childhood trauma and then accidentally hooking up with a serial killer is that you kind of spend a lot of time wondering what the hell you did wrong.

The thing about being a werewolf, weirdly enough, is that it’s suddenly a lot easier to snap out of those spirals. “It’s not like we have a cure for depression or anything like that,” Scott says, absently running his fingers through Derek’s hair. “Trust me, I—”

“You did help some people,” Allison says. She pulls her head up from where it’s resting on Derek’s chest, then shifts over so that she’s straddling him. 

When she stretches over to peck Scott on the mouth, her breasts and then her belly rise over Derek and he has to bite back a purr. It’s like he can smell the warmth coming off people now, smell it and feel it and it’s soothing and pleasant and also a little bit hot, just kind of like a silk glove moving up and down his cock. And it’s a little weird, considering his prior experiences with loss of control, but he’s actually really okay with just having werewolf instincts triggered all the time.

“Yeah, yeah, but it wasn’t—I still feel like I could’ve helped a lot more, if I’d just…I don’t know, figured it out faster.” Scott sounds mournful, but also, sounds like he’s getting sucked into making out with Allison. And then he rumbles—making Derek start; he’s still not used to that coming out of a guy like _Scott_ —and sinks down, his hand sliding under Derek’s hair to the back of Derek’s neck. “So anyway, I had this whole idea that werewolves have special healing powers and it doesn’t really work like that. We can take pain away, and we can snap you out of stuff, but if you go in thinking you can just—fix people, it’s not such a good idea.”

Derek’s pretty sure his new laidback attitude has something to do with just how easy being a werewolf makes communicating these days. He doesn’t have to figure out how to say something when he can just tilt up his chin, then flip himself over and feel the tension drain out as he starts nuzzling Scott’s shoulder. Sure, the instincts get inconvenient sometimes, but the thing is, he’s not scaring other people so bad these days.

“I mean, the stuff you can do, it’s just temporary. And you still have to do all the hard work figuring out what’s really wrong, and getting them to work with you, and I kind of forgot about that. It’s just my mom—” Scott takes a deep breath, and both Allison and Derek purr at him “—thanks. So she died on shift, right? And I just, after that I just told myself, I gotta use what I am for helping people. That’s what she did, all the way up to dying, she was trying to help.”

“You got a therapy license,” Derek mutters.

Because now people can get clues besides just the grumpy crap Derek comes out with, when he tries to say something. Honestly, sometimes he tries not to sound so bitchy, but before, whatever he did, people always seemed to take it the wrong way. Werewolves, however, have scent and smell to go on too, and he knows he’s not smelling angry.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Scott says, petting Derek’s hair again. “But it’s to work with dogs and people, and it’s not just because I like dogs.”

Derek looks up at him. Allison doesn’t, but she’s giggling where she has her face smushed into Derek’s shoulder.

“Okay, I _do_ like them, but it’s also because the dogs help me,” Scott says. He tries and fails miserably to make an offended face; he’s about as capable of that as Derek is of sounding harmless. “They remind me. That I can’t just go werewolf on people and everything will happen. Dogs and us don’t speak exactly the same language, you know, there’s—there are translation issues, and having them reminds me that it’s the same with me and human patients, too.”

“But you do kind of just go werewolf,” Derek says. “I mean, it does do something.”

Scott wrinkles his face. “Yeah, but it’s—that’s just alpha—”

“It’s not _just_ alpha,” Allison says. “I get your point, Scott, but also, alpha is different, and you have to keep that in mind too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Scott says, and then he sees how Derek’s looking at them. Or maybe smells how uncertain Derek is; the two of them are actually pretty good at not making Derek feel like a third wheel, with all the crap from their past break-up floating around. “So the thing where you feel like your alpha’s calling you—”

“That’s what I mean,” Derek says. “I was really fucking mad, but you made me hear you, and so I stopped.”

Scott shifts uncomfortably, and then leans over, purring and rubbing his cheek reassuringly against Derek’s jaw. “No, no, it’s cool, it’s not like you fucked up—”

“Almost did,” Derek mutters, with his own wince. So he’s not exactly great at patience. There’s a difference between that and being the kind of asshole people really do hide their kids from, and bad as he can get, he doesn’t actually want to be a bogeyman. “It’s not like you made me _stop_ , you know. I just—I heard you, and I got a second, and I actually thought.”

Allison’s still snuggling up to Derek’s shoulder, but she slips her hand around Derek and presses her palm against his stomach, letting him know that was a good move. He presses forward into it, and also, happens to get Scott’s mouth for a couple seconds. Okay, more like a minute; Scott can be really wishy-washy about other things, but he’s pretty damn determined about kissing.

“Okay, no, we were—we were talking. Crap. And don’t look like that, I’m trying to be serious,” Scott mumbles, hauling himself back. He rubs his hand through his hair, studiously ignoring Derek’s disappointed whine, and then shakes his head. “So yeah, no, I didn’t, but alphas can do that. They can make you do things, especially ones they’ve bitten.”

Derek sighs. “I know, I read the—I’ve read that manual something like thirty times now. I actually quoted the goddamn thing to Peter the other day.”

Allison laughs. “Dad does that too.”

“I’m pretty sure Peter’s just fucking with us now, he’s got to have it memorized too,” Derek mutters. “Anyway. I’m saying, you _didn’t_ make me.”

“Good point,” Allison says. And she hooks her chin on Derek’s shoulder so that he doesn’t even have to look over to know she’s narrowing her eyes at Scott. “I didn’t mean you should get all guilty over _that_ too.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. But this is what I mean,” Scott says, slumping back onto them. “I gotta think about that. It’s harder to _not_ do it. And Stiles—”

“Stiles is a born,” Allison says, just a touch scolding.

“So it’s honestly even harder for him to not do it,” Scott says. “You know, what he did—what he does with your dad—”

“I know. And I’m not saying he doesn’t do a good job, it’s just, he did start learning a lot earlier than you,” Allison says. Then she glances at Derek and grimaces. “Oh. So…after we turned, Dad was—he was having problems. My mom was missing, and then we found out she was dead—well, Dad found…what was left of her, and he…he’d have these terrible nightmares, and then he’d stay up and just not sleep and he’d make stupid decisions because he was so tired. I think he sleepwalked too, though he’s never—anyway Stiles ended up moving in with us for a couple weeks. He, um, would sleep by Dad so he could cut off the nightmares early.”

Scott purses his lips a few times, getting a little tense, but he doesn’t interrupt. Stiles is one of the very, very few topics that Scott will actually just shut down a conversation over, rather than try and argue with people. And Stiles is…Derek’s not totally sure how he feels about the guy. Not that he thinks Stiles will fuck with them—aside from the completely bizarre sense of humor, but anyway, they’re pack and he knows Stiles takes that very seriously—but even with all the werewolf senses, he has a hard time reading Stiles, while he has a feeling that Stiles doesn’t have any such problem with him.

Also, well, Stiles is younger than Derek, with even more terrible shit in his background, but he’s sane, comfortably in charge, and in a stable relationship with Peter, who used to turn over relationships faster than Derek, _and_ Chris Argent, who is kind of terrifying even when he’s being nice to Derek. And Derek has no idea how that works, and he really, really hopes Allison isn’t about to explain it. He’s fine with just hoping nothing ever blows up.

“They weren’t together yet,” Allison adds after a long pause. She catches Derek’s eye and smirks a little, completely understanding why he’s smelling a little nervous now. “He was just using the whole alpha voice thing to snap Dad out of it. And yeah, that’s not all that it took to make Dad stop, but you have to get that first step, and nothing else was working.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Scott says. “He did do the follow-up, too, and your dad got better, and then for some reason I forgot that when I made alpha. It took me a lot longer than it should’ve to remember that part.”

Allison frowns at him, and Scott comes about as close as he’s capable of to an eye-roll; they’ve clearly been over this argument a lot. They do a nice job of keeping their past off of Derek, but they’re drifting a little now, and…well, Derek’s not a freeloader, he does realize he needs to pitch in once in a while. 

“So who does it for alphas?” he says, hoping for a subject change.

Scott blinks. “Huh?”

“I mean. If alphas can get through to betas, then what happens when alphas get screwed up?” Derek says.

“Well…I guess they call me or Stiles,” Scott says. Then he ducks as Allison bats at him. “Ugh, no, I get—I know, you’re really asking, and—”

Allison also pushes into Derek so that he slides up Scott and ends up looking down at the other man. And that just feels—it feels off, being over Scott, even if Scott almost never bothers with alpha posturing, and then Derek’s got Allison holding him down too, even as he’s trying to wiggle back and at least get his head low. He whines, half in frustration, half in apology, and Allison’s breasts rub down his back as she nuzzles his neck, while Scott reaches up and wraps his hand over that, so his fingers and her mouth are competing for the sensitive spots, and—

“Well, it’s a good question,” Allison says, amused. Her hands circle around Derek, find his wrists, and then pull their hands forward onto Scott, who’s starting to poke an erection into Derek’s thigh even as he looks concerned about Derek’s whimpering. “Depends on the alpha. Stiles, well, Dad chases him down, and then Scott talks to him till he’s too tired to be stupid. And _our_ alpha here, I’m still working on it but sex seems to be a good first step so far.”

“I don’t think that’s actually valid thera—” Scott starts.

Derek’s not so eaten up by instincts that he can’t just push over, his alpha’s hand still firmly gripping his neck, and cover up Scott’s mouth with his own. Sure, it feels a little weird, a little wrong, kind of like jumping a turnstile without paying, but if he does it _right_ —

Scott gives up on trying to argue. A second later, he’s got both hands on Derek, and then a couple minutes later, he’s driving into Derek’s ass while keeping Derek’s head firmly pressed between Allison’s legs, that hand on Derek’s neck a guide and a ground and a restraint, and just fucking _hot_ , all at once. Allison’s stopped talking too, just growling and whimpering as she pulls at Derek’s wrists, keeping them pinned up by her hips, riding her cunt down onto Derek’s tongue, and fuck, yes, this is perfect. 

Okay. Maybe it’s not _perfect_ perfect yet, but Derek thinks this is a pretty good way of opening up the conversation. And best thing is, he doesn’t have to say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was for a couple purposes--one, I wanted to get in somewhere what this trio looked like together, because I think Allison and Derek double-teaming Scott's heroic complex would be fun, and two, I was dropping hints throughout the story that Chris had some psychological issues that Stiles helped him deal with, but they were very vague. Because Chris is very dismissive of his own problems, and so writing from his POV makes it hard to bring stuff up naturally.
> 
> Also, for all the time that the first two seasons spent on showing how Peter can kinda mind control Scott and Lydia because he bit them, that never seems to come up again. I guess you can explain it as Derek just opting to not use it, but the way Derek talks to Scott about joining in the first kill with your alpha, he seems to regard this as a pretty common part of werewolf turning. Anyway, so I wanted a little discussion about that alpha skill, and how Scott and Stiles might use it. And also, since Scott resisted Peter's attempt to make him help kill the driver, and Lydia displayed clear signs of distress, I'm going with, alpha can make you do, but alpha can't make you feel. Your emotions are still entirely your own reactions.
> 
> It is actually true that dogs and wolves differ in their body language and vocal communications, largely because dogs have adopted some human cues, although they can understand each other. As far as werewolves and dogs go, I figure werewolves will understand the dog a lot better than the average human, but it's still like an American and a British person speaking their own versions of English.


	17. Post-fic: Stiles POV on Peter and Chris

Stiles really ruins way too many of Chris’ bedsheets.

He wishes he could come up with an excuse or something, but he doesn’t have one. He’s an alpha and he’s been raised as one since birth; if anybody can control himself, it’d be him, and he doesn’t _have_ to fuck the hell out of his betas every single time. He doesn’t have to make messes out of them—not just come and sweat, but blood, too. Sure, they heal and all, but alpha-on-beta means there’s a lag.

So Peter always finishes up looking like somebody’s tried to convert him to leopard, with mouth-sized, dark pink shading to slightly purple, bruises all over his throat and the backs of his shoulders, trailing down his spine. This time he’s got hand-shaped bruises on his hips, too, because he’s a wiggly little shit even with two werewolves lying on top of him, and when he shivers and rolls onto his side, he shows tender-looking, chafed nipples, glistening a little with the salve Stiles is currently using on Chris. Stiles once promised he’d make those soft as bubblegum, but he lied; they’re so sensitive he can see Peter twitching as Chris’ head moves vaguely in their direction, but they’re also still tight and pebbled, even though the last round was nearly an hour ago.

Still, bad as Peter looks, he never looks as ravaged as Chris does. Stiles doesn’t even have to look down; he can see it in the way Peter’s eyes widen as Peter looks, and then clearly thinks twice about pushing Chris’ head out of the way. Peter doesn’t exactly have a well-developed sense of sympathy, but he does have a pretty good sense for when he’s going to get smacked.

Chris could still probably manage that. Stiles has done him worse, and he’s still gotten up and gone on patrol (workaholic masochist) after. But yeah, so Stiles does look down, because he takes care of what he’s done and he needs to see in order to do this properly, and Chris doesn’t just have hickeys on him. He’s got a full-on half-necklace of bruising around his throat, dipping lopsidedly between the shoulderblades, bites so close together that even the unbitten flesh swelled. Scratches over his hips, from his own claws before Stiles got his hands pinned, and then, all up his inner thighs from knee to groin, he’s got bites and gashes. They’re deep enough that once Stiles finishes salving them, he pulls over the gauze and then starts wrapping up Chris’ legs. That’ll keep stuff from getting scraped back open, and now that Stiles isn’t deep into fucking them, he cares about little things like that.

And he has to, since Chris sure as hell doesn’t. Chris doesn’t flinch at Stiles’ touch, just groans a little and arches himself up. Gets his belly off the bed and his thighs spread for Stiles to work the gauze between them. And his ass right in Stiles’ face, hole still smeared around with tacky, half-dried come. If Stiles wanted to—and look, he’s a fucking alpha werewolf, and Chris is smoking hot even before the submission gets added in, he really damn well wants to—he knows he could just drop the gauze, push his cock back in there, and Chris would spread for him. Make those little killed noises, badass hunter from a legendary family turned badass beta, and he does that just for Stiles. He wouldn’t even care if he started bleeding again.

“Bit of a pain slut, are we?” Peter murmurs, watching them. He purrs a little as Stiles shakes himself, concentrates on just making the gauze tight enough to not slip and pull off the scabbing, then eases up onto his elbows and curls around to lay his head against Stiles’ hip. “Mmm, no, alpha, I’m just…observing. Concerned bystander and all.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says. He gives Peter’s neck a light squeeze, stirring a whimper from the man, and then ruffles his hand through Peter’s hair before going back to Chris. “Yeah, well, that’s why it’s a good thing we don’t do this every night.”

“Wouldn’t mind that,” Chris mutters. When Stiles ties off the gauze, he sighs and hitches back, and for a second he just cups his ass into Stiles’ hands. “No, I know. And I’m not a goddamn pain slut, Peter. ‘s not about getting fucked up, so don’t get ideas.”

Peter snorts, but the look he sends Stiles is both inquiring and faintly wary, and for once it’s not because he’s nervous about what Chris might do to him. He might not be the most sympathetic guy in the world—which Stiles likes about him, he keeps his feelings for people who’ve earned them, and that fits werewolf like a glove—but he’s committed to this too and he’s not stupid.

Neither is Stiles, and he _can_ hold himself back. He would, if Chris didn’t do things like purr and rub his cheek into the bed when Stiles is bandaging him up. If Chris wasn’t settling himself back right now, legs splaying bonelessly as Stiles drapes the man over his knees, gently rubs at the bruises over Chris’ hips, showing he’s just as fond of that as he is of getting marked up. Stiles likes it when they bend for him, when they show throat and fall apart for him. Likes a little blood too, okay, werewolf, kind of a standard kink, but he doesn’t want them _hurt_. He’s not that kind of alpha.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Peter says to Chris. “Although looking at you, the mind does wander, and you can’t really blame me, can you?”

“I can if you’re getting it wrong,” Chris snorts. He moves his knees some, getting comfortable, and then presses his weight back onto them as Stiles slides a palm up his spine, from ass to neck, and Chris sighs and slowly rolls his body with the touch. He purrs again, sleepy, smelling happy as Stiles has ever seen him, and then hitches his ass lazily up Stiles’ lap till its swell just brushes into Stiles’ belly. “’s not about bleeding, okay, or just—okay, it’s a little about marking. First bites don’t scar, wanted something—something to show it happened.”

Peter snorts again. “And waking up a werewolf wasn’t enough of a reminder?”

“You get over that pretty quick,” Chris says. Pauses, and then snorts, even as Stiles draws his hands back and wraps the palms over Chris’ ass, dipping the thumbs between Chris’ buttocks so he shivers. “Well, anyway, _I_ did. And it gets normal, and…and kind of forget what it was like not being one. But it’s not just—we heal, okay? We heal.”

“Yes, and—” Peter starts, rolling his eyes.

“We _heal_ ,” Chris says more forcefully. He pushes off on his arm and half-twists, just enough to look at Stiles. Not Peter. “We heal, I heal, and—and that’s it. I heal up, and you help.”

He holds Stiles’ gaze for a second, sure and steady, and then he sinks back, lets himself untwist as Stiles moves him back to the bed, crawls over him and just presses a cheek to the back of his neck. Just pressure, no mouth, no teeth, pressure and warmth and Chris purring like mad underneath.

There’s a little movement off to the side, jostling the bed. Stiles doesn’t want to get off Chris and he starts to snarl, but then Peter adjusts, swinging himself up beside them. He whimpers a little as his nipples press up against Chris’ arm and Stiles’ side, but Chris isn’t moving, and soon enough Peter relaxes into place. Starts purring too, when Stiles reaches over and pets his neck, careful of the bites. 

“Well, I stand corrected,” Peter murmurs sleepily. “Comfort slut, then.”

“Jackass,” Chris grunts. “ _You’d_ know.”

Stiles laughs at both of them. “Whatever,” he says. “You’re both the prettiest, how about that?”

They both also make little irritated noises at him, but nothing serious; Chris doesn’t even stop purring, which makes his come out kind of strangled. Stiles laughs again, then shifts his legs so he’s not pressing on Chris’ bandages as he strokes Peter’s throat. He doesn’t _have_ to do this, but man, does he love it. And so do they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So alpha wounds take longer to heal. Even if it's still within a day or so (*sigh* show is unclear on timeline), I'd think it would be beneficial to wrap/stitch wounds so stuff aligns properly and wounds stay clean (even if infection is apparently not an issue, having a pebble grown into your skin has to be uncomfortable).
> 
> Chris has masochistic tendencies, and has continuing guilt issues, so I wanted to show that Stiles also recognizes that and keeps an eye on it, because they both might kink on doing it rough but neither of them actually want it to slide into dark places, or even codependency. That doesn't come through as much when viewed from Chris POV.


	18. Post-fic: Remember how Derek writes romance novels in this ‘verse?

“We have an issue—” Peter barks, storming into the room, waving a piece of paper in his hand.

Lydia’s brow ticks up. Chris hits control-s and starts to turn around, and Peter goes face-first into the floor as a very determined-looking Derek tackles him from behind, clawing up to snatch at the paper. The two of them roll around for a couple seconds, snarling and smacking at each other, and then Derek squirms free with the paper. He immediately kicks out of Peter’s reach, then flops against the wall, breathing hard, his shredded shirt falling gently off him.

“It was a joke!” he says. “I wasn’t actually going to—I didn’t actually think they’d go for it, Peter, are you kidding me?”

Peter doesn’t bother answering, just pivots himself around and gets ready for another go. Chris and Lydia grab their laptops and are lifting them out of the way when an alpha growl booms through the room; Peter flinches and flattens himself, and then reluctantly pulls back to meet Stiles, who’s walking up behind him. 

“Okay, what?” Stiles says.

Derek glowers at him.

Scott appears next to Stiles. “What’s going on?” he says, looking worriedly between Peter and Derek. “Look, let’s just take a time-out, and…and I can call a pack meet if it’s serious, okay, but—”

“ _No_ ,” Derek says, completely horrified. “What? No, don’t—nobody else needs to know. Nobody.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Sure, that’s what somebody says every single time we’re about to get invaded. What’s up?”

He looks down at Peter, who manages to be both vindicated and offended as Stiles closes his hand over the back of Peter’s neck. “ _I_ was trying to bring it to your attention, seeing as we have only a very short window before—” Peter twitches, probably a light scratch on his nape “—Derek wrote his next novel about us.”

“I did not!” Derek snaps. He starts to get up, then realizes he’s still holding the paper and grimaces. Then he sits back down, stuffs that under his ass, and looks belligerent for the second it takes for Scott to cross the room and put a hand on his shoulder, at which point he starts looking guilty. “I—it’s not written, okay, it’s just a synopsis, and I sent over three, and it’s not my fault my editor loves—”

“Derek,” Scott says, squatting down in front of him. “Come on, it’s okay.”

Lydia sniffs. “Well, I think that depends on how good he is at pseudonyms, doesn’t it? Because I certainly think that our lawyers—”

“We’re not suing pack members,” Scott says, in a very long-suffering tone. He glances over his shoulder at Lydia, who simply looks at Stiles, who…is definitely interested, and isn’t blowing up yet, but who isn’t giving Scott any good signs, judging by how Scott presses his lips together.

He waves his hand at Scott, who sighs and then turns back to Derek. “Look, it was just—I always send three ideas, and we pick one to flesh out,” Derek immediately mumbles. “I was stuck and I just threw it together to round out the list and—”

“Skip to the plot, please,” Stiles says.

“Well, the hero is a damaged veteran who meets a therapist, but the therapist has a best friend who plays a major role in the story,” Peter rattles off, ignoring Derek’s hiss and then aborted attempt to bat his face from across the room. “Said friend is dating a vet himself—”

“Excuse me?” Chris says. Warning bells were already going off, but at the idea that Derek might’ve given away critical information that could get them killed in the future. Not…not…Derek included him?

“—and they’re mostly comic relief,” Peter continues, with increasing relish in his voice. “And have a _very_ healthy sex life, presumably to contrast with the hero’s romantically chaste seduction of the therapist, and oh, _also_ , the friend was in a previous relationship with a dashing lawyer who—”

Stiles grins down at Peter. “You’re not a bad guy?”

“Oh, God, no, I’m the tragically deceased former lover who’s still casting a pall on the friend’s current relationship, and therefore causing him to give not terribly disinterested advice to the therapist about the merits of getting involved with the hero,” Peter says.

“So I get to live, while he killed you before the story starts,” Chris says.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I still get very detailed flashbacks. So detailed, in fact, that—”

“My editor and co-writer wanted me to switch it around and base the story on them instead,” Derek says, staring at the floor. “I mean the best friend and the vet and the lawyer. And they wanted me to bring the lawyer back so there’d be a love triangle and I already told them no way, okay?”

Lydia starts giggling. She blinks hard a few times, looking as puzzled as they are about where those immature little titters are coming from, and then she gives up and unrepentantly laughs into her hand. Scott glares at her, but since she’s got her back to him, that does absolutely nothing.

So he puts his arm around Derek instead. “It’s okay, it’s…it’s just made-up stuff, it’s not like anybody really got hurt. Right?”

He looks at the rest of them. Chris is having a pretty hard time himself keeping a straight face, so he looks at Stiles. Which turns out to be a mistake, since his alpha’s collapsed over Peter and is flat-out howling into Peter’s shoulder.

“Oh, what, Scotty?” Stiles gasps in between bursts of laughter. “Oh, uh, no. No, yeah, you’re—nobody’s hurting. No, we’re good. We’re good. Just…oh, my _God_.”

“Did your editor have a favorite?” Peter asks, with a face so perfectly deadpan that Chris almost misses the waves and waves of amusement in his scent.

Derek now looks like he’s just realized the worst of this is not, actually, Peter’s indignation. “…she was thinking the market’s up for alternative lifestyles and we should go with a threesome, and I hate you, Peter.”

“Clearly,” Peter says, his mouth starting to twitch.

“I’m _not_ writing that,” Derek says, glaring at his uncle.

Peter, of course, ignores that, but just then Stiles flops over so hard that Peter’s distracted into twisting around to hold him up. Chris figures he might as well get up and help, and get them out of the room while he’s at it. Scott’s not a moron, and he’s not totally lacking in ego either, and anyway, Derek’s going to explain the real insult in all of this sooner or later because that’s what a good beta does and Derek is that.

“Even if he’s a terrible, terrible writer,” Stiles says, petting Chris’ head. He lifts his hand as Chris hiccups again, then slides it under Chris’ chin. “You want me to scare those out of you?”

Chris shakes his head, trying to stifle the next hiccup, and then snickers a little more as Stiles lets go. “Scott—he’s—”

“Ah, I’ll catch him later, we’ll be cool. I don’t think he really wants to be a romance novel hero either, it doesn’t fit with his whole humble do-gooding style,” Stiles says. “Also, kind of hard to get his photo for those book jacket covers, you know?”

“You know, upon further reflection, it might not be such a bad idea, after all,” Peter says in a musing tone. “Sometimes the best way to hide is in plain sight, and if people run across something that sounds _just_ like a book they’ve read…”

Chris clears his throat. “But Erica would read it.”

They all think about that.

“I suppose we should cut it off before it gets to movie franchise time, anyway,” Peter finally says. “God knows they’ll never get the casting right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy because I just got to 3:08 and it is a beautifully-constructed episode (in terms of pacing and editing) that also manages to be the most WTF attempt at filling in backstory I've ever seen. And just because you lampshade the fact that your backstory doesn't make sense doesn't fix the plotholes. It just makes them more obvious (why don't either Ennis or Derek seem to recognize each other? Well, who knows about Ennis, but yes, Peter, Derek doesn't feel like remembering the guy who killed his all-important first love, an event that completely changed his whole personality. And why does Cora not remember this, when she would have been old enough to note a change in Derek? Why does Chris have to explain hunter stuff to Gerard, who presumably taught him the gig in the first place? Why do none of the werewolves tackle the old raving dude who takes like thirty seconds to spin that metal wheel? God, I could go on forever). 
> 
> The show frustrates me so, so much, but I really like writing for it. So I wrote something before I got too disgusted and just gave up on it.


End file.
